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LYRICS OF THE LINKS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO ' 
DALLAS • ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltb 

TORONTO 



LYRICS OF THE LINKS 

COMPILED BY 

HENRY LITCHFIELD WEST 



ILLUSTRATED BT 

GEORGE M. RICHARDS 




thou Golfinia, Goddess of these plains! 
Great Patroness of Goff ! Indulge these strains. 

Thomas Mathison, Edinburgh, 1743. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK MCMXXI 

All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 









Copyright, 1921, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1921, 



JUH -i 19^1 



Press of 
J. J. Little & Ives Company- 
New York, U. S. A. 



g)Ci.ASi?165 






®0 
ALL LOVERS OF THE GAME 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

r I ^HE game of golf, with its freedom, facination and 
•^ companionship, has found plentiful expression in 
lyric form. This compilation is due to a desire to give 
permanency to verses which have hitherto appeared 
only in fugitive fashion — verses which appeal to every 
lover of the game because they are inspired by senti- 
ment, humor, wisdom and experience, and, above all, 
by a spirit of keen enjoyment and enthusiasm. The 
work has been made possible through permission gen- 
erously accorded to reprint copyrighted material by 
The American Golfer, Golfer's Magazine, Golf Illus- 
trated, Brooklyn Life, The Century, Doubleday, Page 
& Co., publishers of "The Winning Shot" by Grantland 
Rice and Jerome D. Travers ; Harper & Bros., former 
publishers of Golf; Clinton Scollard, John Kendrick 
Bangs, Edwin L. Sabin, Philander Johnson, Edgar A. 
Guest, S. E. Kiser and many others. Due acknowledg- 
ment of this courtesy is hereby made. 



^^^OLF is a game in which attitude of mind counts 
C "W f^^ incomparably more than mightiness of 
muscle. Given an equality of strength and 
skill, the victory in golf will he to him who is Captain 
of his Soul. Give me a clear eye, a healthy liver, a 
strong will, a collected mind, and a conscience void of 
offence both toward God and toward men, and I will 
back the pygmy against the giant. Golf is a test, not 
so much of the muscle, or even of the brain and nerves 
of a man, as it is a test of his inmost veriest self; of 
his soul and spirit; of his whole character and dis- 
position; of his temperament ; of his habit of mind; 
of the entire content of his mental and moral nature 
as handed down to him by unnumbered multitudes of 
ancestors. 

"The Mystery of Golf," 

By Arnold Haultain. 




Lyrics of the Links 

A GOLF SONG 

WHEN the world in Spring is smiling. 
And the heart of man is young. 
Is there aught that's more beguiling, 

All terrestrial joys among, 
Than to roam o'er grass and heather, 

Or along a sandy shore. 
Be it fair or frowning weather. 
With a golf ball on before. 

Then hey! for the drive from the tee; 
For the links by the sounding sea ; 
And the wide sand dune, 
It is never too soon. 
And golf is the game for me! 



Lyrics of the Links 



Summer claims our glad ovation. 

And the heart of man is strong; 
What is better in creation 

Than the golf links all day long? 
Throw aside your cares and worries 

At the radiant sun's behest; 
Every wise man surely hurries 
To the green he loves the best. 

Then hey ! for the drive from the tee ; 
For the links by the sounding sea; 
It is never too hot, 
Be it June or not. 
And golf is the game for me! 

Though the Autumn days are shorter 

And our strength is on the wane. 
By the briny salt sea-water 
Let us all play golf again. 
Though cold fogs and winds assail us, 

We shall never feel the chill; 
Though the summer sunshine fail us, 
We will seek the green links still. 

Then hey ! for the drive from the tee ; 
For the links by the sounding sea; 
For it's never so gray 
As to spoil your play. 
And golf is the game for me! 



Lyrics of the Links 



When the year is nearly ended, 

In the Winter of our days, 
Let our strength be still expended 
On the game beyond all praise. 
Though the sun in glory waneth, 

And the leaves are sere and dun, 
Make the most of what remaineth. 
Play until the round is won. 

Then hey ! for the drive from the tee ; 
For the links by the sounding sea; 
For it's never too cold. 
And we're never too old. 
And golf is the game for me ! 

Rose Champion de Crespigny. 



BUNKER WISDOM. 

PLAYING from the bunker sand, 
Never press or try for length ; 
Keep your temper all in hand, 
Playing from the bunker sand. 
Use the skill at your command 

To get clear. Don't waste your strength. 
Playing from the bunker sand ; 
Never press or try for length. 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 



ON THE LINKS 

SHE is surprising fair, and so 
I linger still her face to see, 
And oft I sigh, for well I know 

She dreams of golf and not of me. 
I seek to babble and be gay ; 

Her eye from mine no rapture drinks ; 
I cannot lure her thoughts away; 
Her mind is ever on the links. 

I brought a book; 'twas leather bound; 

I'd never sighted it before; 
Its pages yellow, yet profound, 

Were filled with zoologic lore. 
"What creatures, pray, do you like best?" 

Quoth I. (My voice to pathos sinks.) 
She smiles and says, "More than the rest, 

I think I should prefer the lynx." 

An hour we wandered through the grove; 

I said that I'd her caddie be 
If she would but consent to rove 

A little while that way with me. 
The birds sang loud. "What birds," I cry, 

"Are sweetest to your ears?" The ramx, 
Without a pause, gave me reply: 

"My favorite birds are bol>o-links." 



Lyrics of the Links 



And then I turned to literature. 

My heart awoke to cynic glee, 
For on that topic I was sure 

Her thought by mine must guided be. 
"What books most please your gentle taste?" 

Her steadfast eye she never winks. 
I'm vanquished. I retire in haste. 

She simply answers, "Maeterlinck's." 

Philander Johnson. 

WHEN THE CADDIE IS OVER THE HILL 

THE links are a vision of purple and brown, 
Where curious ventures befall ; 
O'er slope and o'er level, o'er crest and o'er down, 

We follow the mischievous ball. 
The sun is aslant on the dunes and the gorse ; 

I see, with a mystical thrill, 
A "hazard" that waits near the end of the course, 
When the caddie is over the hill. 

Oh, dear little figure in scarlet and blue, 

With graces bewitching endowed, 
'Mid drives and 'mid foozles, I wonder, do you 

Consider the caddie a crowd? 
Is it golf, do you think, to whose magic we yield? 

Can golf such enchantment instil? 
Will what I am asking be sweetly revealed 

When the caddie is over the hill? 



Lyrics of the Links 



The caddie, a laddie more faithful than wise, 

With ears of capacity strange ; 
With sharp, telescopic and argus-like eyes, 

Possessed of embarrassing range — 
I wonder if he has the shrewdness to know 

I'm biding the moment until 
'Tis proper we pause in the valley below, 

When the caddie is over the hill? 

The links are a glory of marvellous green. 

Wlio says it is late in the year? 
Why, Spring has returned ! Just for lovers, I ween. 

The larks and the cowslips are here. 
For, ah, I have learned from the lips of the maid 

She fully agrees, with a will, 
That ours is a game most cntrancingly played. 

When the caddie is over the hill. 

Edwin L. Sabin. 



THE GOLF FIEND 

HE is seldom home to supper; if he does come, he is 
late; 
The kitchen floor needs painting but the kitchen floor 
must wait. 



Lyrics of the Links 



The screens are in the attic and the storm door should 

come off, 
But fatlier's only rooming here, now that he's playing 

golf. 

He's ceased to dig the garden and he's packed the 

tools away ; 
He says he'll hire a man to plant the flowers we want 

some day. 
At those who toil for exercise he's started in to scoff. 
The stylish way to get it, father says, is playing golf. 

He used to call men foolish when they raved about the 
links, 

But since he's been converted, it's a splendid game, he 
thinks. 

He is out there every Sunday and each afternoon he^s 
off; 

Ma's a widow and we're orphans since he started play- 
ing golf. 

Anonymous, 



I 



THE DUB'S LAMENT 

AM an awful duffer, 
I've never gained renown; 



The caddies call me London Bridge — 
I'm always falling down ! 

Anonymotis. 



Lyrics of the Links 



THE GOLFER'S PRAYER 

I DO not ask for strength to drive 
Three hundred yards and straight ; 
I do not ask to make in five 
A hole that's bogey eight. 

I do not want a skill in play 
Which others can't attain ; 
'^/ I plead but for one Saturday 
On which it doesn't rain. 

Rmg W. Lardner. 




Lyrics of the Links 



WHY? 

WHY, when the sun is gold, 
The weather fine, 
The air (this phrase is old) 
Like Gascon wine; — 

Why, when the leaves are red, 

And yellow, too. 
And when (as has been said) 

The skies are blue ; — 

Why, when all things promote 
One's peace and joy — 

A joy th«,t is (to quote) 
Without alloy;- — 

Why, when a man's well off, 
Happy and gay. 
Why must he go play golf 
And spoil his day? 

Bert Lesion Taylor. 




10 Lyrics of the Links 



MICKEY NOLAN 

MICKEY Nolan was a caddie, 
Blessed by philosophic grace — 
Such a merry little laddie, 

With a freckled, sun-burned face. 
If I lost a hole while playing, 

Mickey trotted out his text. 
Not the faintest doubt betraying, 

"Sure, we'll get 'em at the next." 
Scores of times we tramped together 

Through the fairway to the green, 
In the best and worst of weather, 

Mickey serious and keen. 
Though the luck was going badly, 

Mickey never seemed perplexed, 
But would tell me, grinning gladly, 

"Sure, we'll get 'em at the next.'* 
Mickey died — a hero clearly — 

Fighting gamely to the end ; 
And I mourned the lad sincerely. 

For I knew I'd lost a friend. 
Often now, when fate is tricky, 

And I'm feeling down and vexed, 
I remember smiling Mickey 

And "we'll get 'em at the next." 

Benj. Ay mar. 



Lyrics of the Links 11 

THAT OLD GOLF CLUB OF MINE 
(With apologies to James Whitcomb Riley.) 

As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, 
And muses on the faces of the friends that he 
has known, 
So my heart is stirred within me with a thrill almost 

divine. 
When I take from out the locker that old golf club 
of mine. 

Never has that old club failed me, always certain, 

straight and true ; 
Shaft and head in even balance, with a perfect follow 

through ; 
With keen joy I still remember its great work on 

number nine, 
When I take from out the locker that old golf club 

of mine. 

If misfortune overtook me, so that I should have to part 
With the things that I have cherished, that are nearest 

to my heart. 
Still these dear and valued treasures I would willingly 

resign. 
When I take from out the locker that old golf club 

of mine. 



12 Lyrics of the Links 



Of new clubs I have a-plenty, made by golfers known 

to fame, 
But whene'er I grip their handles, they don't somehow 

feel the same; 
So these clubs that cost me money to the scrap-heap 

I consign * 
When I take from out the locker that old golf club 

of mine. 

Long have we been friends together, through the sun- 
shine and the rain, 

With the drive that made me happy and the putt that 
caused me pain; 

So I feel the thrill it gives me, like old books, old 
friends, old wine, 

When I take from out the locker that old golf club 
of mine. 

Henry Litchfield West. 

A PSALM OF THE LINKS 

LIVES of golfers oft remind us 
How to make our lives sublime, 
And departing leave behind us 
Divots on the links of time. 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 13 



NINE LITTLE GOLF HOLES 

N 



INE little golf holes — bogey thirty-three 
DufFer badly tops his ball driving from the tee. 



Eight little golf holes — first one cost eleven — 
Buried in a bunker deep. Now there are seven. 

Seven little golf holes. What an awful fix ! 

Three balls swimming in the brook. Now there are six. 

Six little golf holes. When he tried to drive, 
Sliced into the high grass. Now there are five. 

Five little golf holes. Gracious, how he swore 
As he dug the turf up. Now there are four. 

Four little golf holes. Stymied by a tree ; 

Ball stuck in the branches ! Now there are three. 

Three little golf holes. Sphere fairly flew; 

But he missed a six-inch putt. Now there are two. 

Two little golf holes. In his face the sun ; 
Approaching, overran the green. Now there is one. 

One little golf hole. Down a steep incline. 
Driver's broken, ball is lost. Score is ninety-nine. 

Anonymous. 



14 Lyrics of the Links 



ON THE GOLF CLUB PORCH 

s we sit and dream in the silent porch 
Together, my pipe and I, 
A cloud of smoke from the old brown bowl 

Floats up to the dappled sky ; 
And I watch through its dim, enchanted haze 

A little sunbonnet go, 
In shadow and shine o'er the grassy links 
That lie in the vale below. 

For early and late, all the long, bright day. 

It is busy flitting there; 
With a caddie wandering in its train, 

Wliile the white ball flies in the air; 
A sunbonnet, ancient of pattern, such 

As Priscilla's sweet self wore 
When she walked witli the homesick pilgrim maids 

Long since, on an alien shore. 

And the jolly lads, in the jackets red — 

There's never a one goes by 
But he slacks his pace and he turns his head, 

And he feels his heart beat high 
At the glance he gets and the smile he brings 

To the roguish face within 
That sheltering scoop, with its soft strings tied 

In a knot beneath her chin. 



Lyrics of the Links 



15 



But I bide my time on the silent porch, 

For I know whom she loves best, 
And that by and bye, when the game is done, 

And the day lies low in the west. 
She will hang her sunbonnet on her arm, 

And the peeping stars will see 
What a soft light lies in her happy eyes, 

As she wanders home with me. 

Anonymous. 




16 Lyrics of the Links 



THE SCORE 

I SWUNG the club with all my force 
When starting 'round the Midland course. 
I hit the ground while on the tee, 
And broke my club — that cost me 3.00 

Next time I hit the tiny pill, 

And aimed it at a distant hill, 

The ball was lost — an awful drive — 

And I was stung for ,86 

But just a moment after that 

A speeding golf ball smashed my hat. 

This golfing game is mighty fine — 

The hat had cost 8.49 

And then it started in to rain, 

And rained with all its might and main ; 

This pasture pool is sure great fun — 

To press my suit cost even 1.00 

This game of golf is fine, they say; 

But me for tennis or croquet ! 

Some games cost less and some cost more, 

But this one cost 8.34 

Claude H. Gamble. 



Lyrics of the Links 17 

IF 

(With apologies to Kipling.) 

IF you can keep your head quite free from motion, 
And sweep clear through with swift, unerring 
grace ; 
If you can glue your mind tight to the notion 

You must not move the windows of your face ; 
If, being blocked, you don't grow tired of waiting, 

Or, being cupped, you don't complain of lies ; 

Or, jumping bunkers, don't give way to baiting. 

And yet don't look too good or talk too wise ; 

If you can slice and not lament the nonsense; 

Or pull, and not show wrath outside ; 
If bunkered, you can shut your teeth in silence, 

Or, holing mashie, mask your swelling pride ; 
If you can bear to hear your one best reason 

Flung back to you with jeering jibe and sneer; 
And see the finest fetish of the season 

Struck, Caesar-like, a death-blow from the rear. 

If you can rim the cup without a grumble. 
Or luck a putt and never crack a smile ; 

If winning, you can make believe you're humble, 
Or losing, you can swallow all your bile ; 



^^ Lyrics of the Links 



If you can fill the most disastrous minute 
With sixty seconds worth of smiling done; 

Yours is the earth and everything that's in it, 
And which is more — you'll be a golfer, son. 

A, E. A, 

IT'S A GREAT LIFE 

HELLO, dear, how are you? 
Glad you came around. 
Fred's out at the Country Club 
Batting up the ground. 

Did you go to Martha's? 

Fred came in too late. 
Played 'til it was pitchy dark, 

Forgot we had a date. 

Oh, you leave tomorrow? 

I would like it there. 
Freddie won't hear of it, for 

The course is only fair. 

We are coming 'round to see 

You and Mr. Haines. 
Possibly on Sunday, 

That is — if it rains. 

Amelia Adams Harrington. 



Lyrics of the Links 19 



A TOAST 

OH, here's to the merry golfing maid, 
The maid whom we all adore; 
With her buoyant tread and her coat of red. 
And her cheerful cry of "fore!" 

To the maid with the sun-kissed, ruddy face. 

And a freckle here and there ; 
The jolly girl with the truant curl, 

And a heart as light as air. 

To the maiden who follows the snowy ball 

Far over the hills and dales ; 
Oh, she is the queen of the putting green. 

Where her masculine rival quails. 

So drink to the girl on the ballroom floor. 

Or the yachting girl at sea ; 
But I'll drink a toast to the girl I love most — 

The golfing girl for me! H. H. M. 

A FAVORITE OF FORTUNE 

HIS eye Is never on the ball, his driving it is weak, 
While his system of approaching is to top it with 
his cleek; 
He never plays a decent iron nor hits a brassey clean, 
But oh! to see him luck a putt from clear across the 
green. H. Van Tassel Sutphen. 



20 Lyrics of the Links 



BUSY 

I'm playing golf — and thus this rime 
Will hasty be, perforce; 
So short, you see, the course of time — 

So long the golfing course ! 
And when my deck's not in my hand, 

It's in my mind, I vow. 
I trust I'm clear. You understand? 

I'm playing golf just now. 
I'm playing golf — in vain, therefore, 

Would other things engage. 
My eyes but foozle, o'er and o'er, 

Adown each pesky page. 
And all the night the Bogey lays 

His fingers on my brow, 
To lead me far, 'mid bunkered ways — 

I'm playing golf just now. 
I'm playing golf — earth, moon and sun 

Revolve around my score. 
Oh, dark is life at sixty-one — 

But bright at forty-four! 
Perhaps the game you'd like to know. 

Come out ; I'll show you how. 
Excuse me, for I've got to go — 

I'm playing golf just now. 

Edwm L. Sahin. 



Lyrics of the Links 21 



GOLFERS' BALLADE FOR AUTUMN 

SEE how the pennoned maples buni, 
The lindens flaunt their flames of gold! 
Each sumac is a crimson urn, 

Each elm a palmer, russet-stoled ; 
The wind breathes warnings down the wold; 
The wild-geese wing their southward way. 

Too soon will close the cruel cold; 
So go ye golfing while ye may ! 

To silvery notes the rills return — 

To vernal lyrics, blithely trolled; 
The last late-lingering warblers yearn 

For Spring in songs of yellow mold ; 

Now earlier unto the fold 
The wandering flocks, unsummoned, stray; 

Too soon will close the cruel cold ; 
So go ye golfing while ye may ! 

Anon will dawn a morning stern, 

With brooding cloud-banks ridged and rolled; 
Anon a ruthless hand will spurn 

The woodland arras, brightly scrolled ; 

Anon the year, grown bent and old, 
Will shamble by in garments gray ; 

Too soon will close the cruel cold; 
So go ye golfing while ye may 1 



22 Lyrics of the Links 



ENVOY 

Good golfers, as a tale that's told 

This life will be, ere many a day ; 
Too soon will close the cruel cold; 

So go ye golfing while ye may ! 

Clinton Scollard. 



I 



I SAW PHYLLIS 

SAW Phyllis on the links — 
Not a glance she sent my way — 
Saucy, sunny little minx, 
I saw Phyllis on the links — 
Wonder what my caddie thinks 
When he notes my wretched play. 

I saw Phyllis on the links ; 
Not a glance she sent my way. 

Theodosia Pickering Garrison. 

FROM HER CADDIE 

DEAR Miss : You rake me o'er the coals, 
In words that sting while they amuse^ 
Because between the course's holes 

Sometimes the ball I lose. ^ 

And this I offer as my plea: 

I am but human, after* all; 
When you are on the links with me, 
How can I watch the ball? 

Edwin L. Sahvn. 



Lyrics of the Links 23 



WHEN KITTY GOLFS 

WHEN Kitty golfs she heeds the lore 
Of five devoted swains, or more; 
And clad in quite the latest thing, 
She lifts her driver up to swing — 
Alas! the ball just topples o'er. 

But though her balls nor rise nor soar, 
Her smiles discouraged hearts restore. 
There's always something happening 
When Kitty golfs. 

E'en caddies, though they quite deplore 
Her game, beg leave to keep her score ; 

And yet the cards which back they bring 

Are not her only pilfering — 
'Tis Cupid who warns players : "Fore !" 
When Kitty golfs. 

Charlotte Becker. 




^/t00*-^ie{ 



24 Lyrics of the Links 



"LIKE AS WE LIE" 

Two golfers once set forth to play, 
Their names are not here stated; 
And one exhibited a trait 
Not to be imitated. 

It happened A got on the green, 

Rejoicing, with his second; 
But bunkered badly B was seen ; 

Himself unseen, he reckoned. 

The useful niblick A espies, 
And jets of sand in plenty; 

At last upon the green B lies, 

(He'd reached it just in twenty.) 

With triumph B approaches A, 
Whom he thinks none the wiser. 

And with a voice resounding gay. 
Calls out, "Like as we lie, sir." 

The face of A was good to see; 

With eye to terror strike, sir, 
He fixes that unblushing B, 

And says, "Lie as you like, sir.'* 

W. Malhig-Wynch, Jr, 



Lyrics of the Links 25 



A TONIC FOR THE GAME 

'fT^WAS on the links at Goficut — 

M. A Jersey man was he; 
He'd come from old Miasmaville 

To play a game with me. 
And when we reached the seventh hole, 

Down by the high stone wall, 
I had a horrid stroke of luck, 

And lost my brand-new ball. 

"No other ball have I," quoth I, 

Nor had the caddy one; 
Nor was my visitor supplied, 

And gone seemed all our fun, 
When "Hi ! Eureka !" cried my friend, 

"These things will fill the bill!" 
And took a bottle from his bag 

And handed me a pill. 

A quinine pill, both smooth and round- 

A trifle small, no doubt — 
But still 'twas all we had at hand. 

And with it I played out. 
And oh, it was a wondrous sight 

To see that little sphere 
Go bounding o'er the bunkers high, 

And dancing o'er the mere. 



26 Lyrics of the Links 

It lofted like a new balloon ; 

It stymied like a dream; 
It putt just like a croquet ball — 

Drove like a solar beam. 
It drove as straight as straight could be, 

Toward the wished-for goal, 
And brought me out a winner, ay, 

On each and every hole. 
And that is why, in spite of all 

The scoffing, jeering crowd, 
I always play with quinine pills, 

Whenever 'tis allowed. 
What care I that you think me mad? 

It never brings me shame 
To play with anything that acts 

As tonic to my game. Carlyle Smith. 

THE GOLFER'S EPITAPH 

UNDER the wide and open sky, 
Dig the grave and let me lie; 
Gladly I've lived and gladly die, 

Away from this world of strife; 
This be the epitaph for me — 
"Here he lies where he longed to he — 
Lies in death by the nineteenth tee, 
Where he lied all througli his life." 

Grantland Rice. 



Lyrics of the Links 27 



BUNKERED 

I've been slicing and sclaffing and foozling", 
And I'm up to the burn in eighteen, 
With my hopes growing steadily dimmer 

Of reaching the far away green. 
When I think of the strokes I've recorded. 

From oaths I can hardly refrain. 
More than once I've been bunkered already, 
And I'll shortly be bunkered again. 
Bunkered again ! Bunkered again ! 
I'm sure to be bunkered again ! 

The foursome behind me are swearing, 

And repeatedly shouting out "Fore !'* 
They are dropping approach shots behind me. 

And preparing to level some more. 
And though I am hitting my hardest, 

And pressing with might and with main. 
Here I am at the edge of the bunker, 

And I'm bound to be bunkered again. 
In it again ! In it again ! 
I'm bound to be in it again ! 

I have topped it each time with the iron ; 

I can't use the mashie at all; 
Cleeks and brasseys are out of the question 

When you've got to get under the ball. 
I'll try a full swing with the niblick — 



28 Lyrics of the Links 

I'm told it will stand any strain ; 
So it does — no, confound it, it doesn't! 
Plump into the bunker again. 
In it again ! In it again ! 
Plump into the bunker again ! 

Anoni/mous, 

VICTORY 

OUT of the night of vain desire, 
The slough of unattained things, 
Behold, I rise on wings of fire! 
A joyous song my spirit sings. 

In the* fell clutch of sand and rough, 

I have not quit nor sworn aloud; 
No lie, no run of luck so tough, 

But hope still struggled through the cloud. 

Beyond the bunker's deadly snare 

Looms but another hazard tall. 
And yet the menace of their dare 

No more shall daunt my soaring ball. 

It matters not how small the fame, 
How far from really good the score; 

I am the master of my game — 
Lo ! I have shot an eighty-four ! 

S, G. Eaton. 



Lyrics of the Links 29 

HER LOGIC 

WHEN she's at home she takes a car 
To go two blocks, 
For walking gives her such a jar — 

And jarring shocks ! 
She makes her husband foot the floor 

When baby cries, 
And if she walks or steps a score. 
She almost dies. 

Yet she avows she'll pedestrate 

The links around, 
Nor will her willing walk abate 

Until she's found 
The bottom of the eighteenth hole 

And victory — 
She will endeavor for the goal, 

Though far it be. 

O girl ! Of logic you've not missed 

A single point ; 
The task, you say, is with your wrist, 

Not ankle joint; 
With putter, mashie, brassey, cleek, 

Your walk's inspired, 
But marketing will make you weak. 

And oh, so tired! 

Walter Utting. 



30 Lyrics of the Links 

TO A GOLF BALL 

{On finding one in the grass.) 

WEE, modest, weather-stained sphere, 
How comes it that I find you here, 
Where ye have lain for many a year, 

In spot secluded? 
How have ye, with the green so near, 
All search eluded? 

Who was the wight who drove ye thus? 
Were ye resigned without a fuss, 
Or did he incontinently cuss. 

Because ye vanished? 
Belike a match was on, and thus 

All hope was banished. 

I gaze with awe upon thy gashes, 
So eloquent of cleeks and mashies ; 
And here's a cut betrays the thrashes 

Of keen-edged brassey; 
Or made by niblick's lightning flashes 

In hands of lassie. 

Far be it from me to despise. 
Ye have a value in my eyes 
That's not proportioned to thy size, 
However small. 



Lyrics of the Links 



31 



In fact, I'll hold ye as a prize, 
Ye battered baU ! 

With others of your kin and kith, 
I'll hand ye o'er to Willie Smith. 
Now what I tell ye is no myth — 

He'll make ye new ! 
I don't know what he does it with, 

But yet it's true. 

E. C. Potter, 




32 



Lyrics of the Links 



RARE SPECIES 

I've met a beggar in the street who scorned my prof- 
fered gift ; 
IVe come upon a wornout tramp who would not take 

a lift; 
I've met a fighter who exclaimed amid the roaring din, 
"I fell before a better bloke without a chance to win" ; 
I've met a guy who never heard of Teddy or of Ty — 
Who never heard of Johnson's speed or Baker's batting 

eye; 
But though I've been around the world and lamped 

within my scope, 
A million weird varieties beyond the purling dope, 
Including scribes who spumed all cash and merely 

wrote for fame. 
In all my life I've never met a golfer "on his game." 

Grantland Rice. 




Lyrics of the Links 



33 



THE END OF A PERFECT GAME 

WHEN you come to the end of a perfect game, 
And you sit alone with the thought, 
And you see where your game was punk and lame, 

And the havoc your clubs have wrought ; 
Do you think of the fours and the fives you had 

And wish for the chance once more? 
Do your vanished approaches leave you sad 
When the eighteen holes are o'er? 

Well, this is the end of a perfect stroll, 

At the end of the journey, too, 
And it leaves a thought that is big and strong 

For the shots that so quickly flew. 
Now mem'ry has painted this perfect scroll 

In colors that never can fade. 
And we find at the end that we needed the hole 

And the putts that we never made. 

John T. Llewellyn. 




34 Lyrics of the lAnhs 



THE DUBS 

OH yet we trust and vainly pray 
A decent score shall crown our game, 
Though putts are wide and drives are lame, 
And hazards crowd our erring way; 

That all who play this luckless game 
Shall triumph nobly in the end, 
That fortune will relent and send 

A tardy string of fours and fame; 

That not a ball is topped in vain, 
That not a dub with futile cleek. 
Has sliced the next one to the creek. 

Or but subserved his future gain. 

Behold ! we know not anything 

Of rules and form and grip and stance; 
We can but hope more kindly chance 

Shall speed our ball, correct our swing. 

So runs our dream, but what are we? 

Poor dubs that smite the earth with force; 

Poor duffers limping 'round the course 
In forty-nine and fifty-three! 

S. G. Eaton. 



Lyrics of the Links 35 



THE LOST BALL 

STANDING one day on the golf links, 
Weary and ill at ease, 
I topped and foozled idly. 

Over the whins and tees ; 
I know not where I was gazing, 

Or what I was dreaming then — 
But I smote that ball of a sudden 

With the force of two-score men. 
It sped through the crimson twilight 

Like a shot of a twelve-inch gun. 
And it passed from my fevered vision 

To the realm of the vanished sun. 
I watched it over the bunker. 

It jumped over hazard and hill; 
It went like a thing infernal — 

I suppose it is going still. 
I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 

That ball of the strenuous pace. 
Which passed from the sole of my driver 

And entered into space. 
It may be some keen-eyed caddie 

Can sooner or later explain ; 
It may be that only in heaven 

I shall find that ball again. 

Laura Simmons, 



36 Lyrics of the Links 



THE BALL AND THE CLUB 

I SHOT a golf ball into the air ; 
It fell toward earth, I knew not where; 
For who hath eye so strong and keen, 
As to follow the flight of my ball to the green. 

I lost a club I could not spare. 
And searched for it most everywhere; 
For who hath sight so keen and quick 
As to trace the course of a missing stick. 

Long, long afterwards, in an oak, 

I found the golf ball still unbroke; 

And the club — with a couple of nicks and a bend, 

I found again in the bag of a friend. 

Forbes Lindsay. 



Lyrics of the Links 37 



THE STRANGER 

Who's that stranger, mother dear? 
Look, he knows us. . . . Ain't he 
queer?" 

"Hush, mj own, don't talk so wild; 
He's jour father, dearest child!" 

"He's my father? No such thing! 
Father died away last Spring!" 

"Father didn't die, you dub! 
Father joined a golfing club. 

"But they've closed the club, so he 
Has no place to go, you see — 

"No place left for him to roam — 
That is why he's coming home. 

"Kiss him ... he won't bite you, child; 
All them golfing guys look wild." 

J, P. McEvoy. 



TheJra noi i® reason, wky- 
Theirs bisi io do or die 




THE OLD HUNDRED 

HALF a stroke, half a stroke, 
Half a stroke onward, 
Into the yawning ditch 
Plump ! goes a foozled pitch — 
This is the scoring which 

Runs up the hundred. 
Bunkers to right of them, 
Bunkers to left of them, 
Bunkers in front of them, 

Showed how they blundered. 



Lyrics of the Links 39 

Oh, the remarks they made 
When strokes ne'er tried by Braid 
Landed them where they played 
More than the hundred. 

Shouts from the men behind 
Followed them down the wind, 
But they ne'er looked to find 

Wherefore they thundered. 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do or die; 
Get from their bunkered lie, 

Under the hundred. 
Bunkers to right of them. 
Bunkers to left of them, 
Bunkers in front of them. 

Showed how they blundered. 
Stormed they with many a curse; 
Often the wrath they'd nurse 
Made them play even worse. 

While the world wondered. 

Frozen their baleful stare, 
Niblicks flashed up in air. 
Rose and fell everywhere, 

Down where they blundered. 
One man was playing back, 
One had lodged in a crack. 



40 Lyrics of the Links 

Where he played whack on whack, 

Over the hundred. 
Bunkers to right of them, 
Bunkers to left of them, 
Bunkers in front of them, 
Waited to catch their ball 

Each time they blundered. 
So nearly every shot 
Landed them in a pot; 
Thus they got round — but not 

Under the hundred. 

Anonymoiis. 

THE UNGOLFING LOVER 

NOT long ago, 
A blithesome beau, 
I sat with Mabel o'er her tea-things; 
The ball of glee 
And repartee 
Passed to and fro above the wee things. 

Alas, I now 

With grief avow 
That through a shroud of gloom I see things, 

For I've no part 

In her new art. 
Although it has to do with "tee'* things. 

Clhiton Scollard. 



Lyrics of the Links 41 

FASCINATION 

OGOLF, thou siren of the lea, 
To whom both sexes bend the knee. 
What is the subtle, magic power 
That makes the world all else forsake, 
And follow in thy grassy wake 

From early mom to twilight hour? 
Each other sport has had its day, 
But none has carried us away 

Completely — body, brain and soul — 
Like golf ; in fact, I'd yield them all, 
To hit just once that little ball 
And drive it onward to a hole. 
Yet deeper still there's something more — 
A hope to make a better score 

Than one has ever yet achieved; 
And in that hope, that ever leads 
Up on to do more worthy deeds. 
May you and I be not deceived! 

Frank J. Bownelle. 

WORKING OVERTIME 

THE heights by leading golfers kept 
Were not attained in daylight fight; 
But they, while their companions slept, 
Were breaking chandeliers at night. 

AnonyTnoui. 



42 Lyrics of the Links 

CAUGHT AT LAST 

YES, young Cupid's changed his calling; 
Tossed away his love-taut bow; 
Folded close his downy winglets, 

Winglets soft and white as snow, 
And has left the field of Amo. 

Who'd have dreamed of such a plight? 
Who'd have fancied darling Cupid, 
Of all people, taking flight? 

How the world has changed since Cupid — 

Sole magician of the heart — 
Cast aside, with bow and arrow, 

All the secrets of his art! 
Though the sun smiles just as brightly, 

And the soft sky keeps its blue, 
There's a change in lives, I fancy; 

Some have ta'en a duller hue. 
Ladies woo — but oh, the wooing 

When no Cupid hovers by ! 
Ladies win — but oh, the winning 

Graced with but a tear or sigh ! 
And the cause of all this trouble? 

Ah ! I really hate to tell. 
Selfish Love has gone a-golfing — 

Latest victim to the spell. 

Beatrice Louise Colhurn. 



Lyrics of the Links 



43 



A TRIOLET OF GOLF 

"\UD beat me today. 

Can I win her tomorrow? 
With my heart one can play — 
Maud beat me today. 
Fickle Fate, can you say. 
Will it joy be, or sorrow? 

Maud beat me today. 
Can I win her tomorrow? 



Francis Bowler Keene. 




44 Lyrics of the Links 



SONG OF THE CHAMPION BALL 

OFF from the tee, like the flight of an arrow, 
Swift as a meteor shot from the sky; 
Out o'er the field free from plowshare or harrow, 
Fleet as the wings of the wind do I fly. 

Swept from the sod by a sweep of the brassey, 

Over the bunker unerring I go ; 
Hasting by hazards, by boundaries grassy. 

Sped by the force of a masterly blow. 

Up and away, with the iron a-swinging. 
Sailing like swallows the bunkers between; 

Bounding along, while the bravos are ringing, 

Straight to the sward of the well-guarded green. 

Then for careful putt addressed — 
This the last triumphant test. 
From the skilful stroke I roll 
Gently to the winning hole, 

Francis Bowler Keene. 



Lyrics of the Links 45 



THE GOLF GIRL 

IN a jaunty scarlet jacket, 
And a mannish little shoe, 
A hat with a quill and tartan, 
And a skirt to clear the dew ; 
On the grassy links I see her, 

Every glorious summer day. 
And forget to mind my putting 
While I watch her graceful play. 

We have met in dreamy waltzes, 

When a rose was on her breast. 
But her partner at the bunkers 

Is the one who knows her best. 
Though the ball is lost forever 

And her hair is out of curl. 
Nothing spoils the sunny temper 

Of the pretty golfing girl. 

If all women once were flowers. 

As an ancient legend tells. 
She has bloomed a sprig of heather 

On the breezy Scottish fells; 
For the wind that roams the bracken, 

And the blue of morning skies. 
Still is rippling in her laughter, 

Still is beaming from her eyes. 



46 Lyrics of the Links 

But in gray or golden weather, 

Stepping lightly to the tees, 
Making drives with daring swiftness, 

"Holing out" with merry ease, 
To the painted balls not only 

Does she bring the golfer's arts. 
For with Cupid as her caddie, 

She is playing with our hearts. 

Minna Innng. 

THE BONNIEST GAME O' ALL 

GiE me the breath o' the hilltop ; 
Gie me the love o' the glen ; 
Gie me the sound o' the bonnie bum 

And the song of the birds I ken. 
Gie me the glimpse o' tlie mountains ; 

Gie me the pastures brown; 
Gie me a day wi' tlie cattle. 

Away frae the heat o' the town. 
Gie me the plaint o' the katydid ; 

Gie me the thrushes' lay; 
Gie me the love o' nature 

And the scent o' the new-mown hay. 
Gie me mj- cleek and putter; 

Gie me the wee bit ball ; 
I'm awa' for the glen and the hieland 

And the bonniest game o' all. 

W. T. Burgess. 



Lyrics of the Links 4^7 



SO DIFFERENT! 

I THOUGHT it hard luck when I met her, 
Introduced by our hostess, and found 
That the maid and myself, for the evening 

Thro' dinner and auction were bound. 
She didn't appeal, not the slightest. 

Her sun-freckled face had no charm, 
While tiie style of her dress was weird, I confess, 
And the prospect I viewed with alarm. 

I bucked up my best ; conversation. 

Intended to cheer and impress. 
Seemed only the maid to embarrass, 

And ended in rather a mess. 
Still later, at auction, confound it. 

She trumped my good queen, and revoke — 
'Twas something she loved to indulge in, 

Till the game on our side was a joke. 

Then, hang it, next day in the foursomes. 

We were drawn, and thus partners were we 
In a mixed competition, important. 

That I wanted a winner to be. 
With a shrug of the shoulder — 'twas kismet, 

I bowed to omnipotent fate. 
And stepped to the tee, a martyr per se, 

Prepared for the worst — desolate. 



48 Lyrics of the Links 

But lo and behold! With amazement 

I watched tliis young partner of mine 
Drive off with a graceful abandon. 

Perfection of motion divine. 
Compared with my own puny efforts, 

A dub in her eyes I would seem, 
For she was a regular player, 

While I was the merest "has been." 

W. Hastings Weblvng. 

WHEN 'OMER SMOTE 'IS BLOOMIN' BALL 

(With apologies to Kipling) 

WHEN 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' ball 
Around the course in sixty-three. 
'E somehow didn't count 'em all, 
An' claimed a fifty — same as me. 

The golfers at the nineteenth hole. 
They'd seen old 'Omer in the slough 

A-diggin' like a bloomin' mole. 
But kept it quiet — same as you. 

They knew he'd lied ; 'e knew they knowed ; 

'E knew 'e'd made a sixty plus. 
Though 'Omer's name and stories growed, 

'E started 'umble — same as us. 

S. G. Eaton. 



Lyrics of the Links 49 



THE VILLAGE GOLFER 

WITH club and ball upon the tee, 
The eager golfer stands ; 
In truth, a healthy man is he, 

With strong and sinewy hands, 
And the muscles of his sun-browned arms 
Are firm as hempen strands. 

His hat is off, his hair blows free. 

His face is like the tan ; 
His thoughts dwell on the Colonel's score, 

He'll beat it if he can ; 
He keeps his eye upon the ball 

And fears no bogey man. 

Week in, week out, from mom to night. 
You can hear him bellow "fore !" 

You can see him swing his various clubs. 
And tramp the meadows o'er. 

Like a reaper with a sickle sharp 
Cutting grain for threshing floor. 

And children coming home from school, 
Gaze o'er the grassy green; 

They love to see the ancient game 
Played with an ardor keen, 

And watch the little balls that fly 
As from a gun-machine. 



50 Lyrics of the Links 

He goes on Sunday to no church — 

Not if he has his choice ; 
He hears no parson pray or preach, 

But lists to Nature's voice 
Resounding o'er the verdant links, 

And body and soul rejoice. 

Succeeding, failing, trying again. 

Around the course he plays ; 
Each morn he seeks to lower the mark 

He's made on other days ; 
A match attempted — bravely fought — 

He earns the victor's bays. 

A word with thee, my worthy friend. 
In golf three things are taught : 

To persevere, yourself control, 
For others have a thought; 

And if you wish for health and strength. 
You'll find them cheaply bought. 

Frank J. BoTvneUe. 

AUTUMN 

THE Summer's dead. The robin sings 
Its farewell to the lark; 
And oh, it's such a little while 
From three o'clock till dark. 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 



51 



A 



THE SITTING HEN 

MALISON upon the man who thinks by taking 
thought 
That he can lengthen out his drive or hole the putt 

that's short. 
Upon each separate blade of grass he meditates 

eternally, 
Awhile the field upon him wait and objurgate infernally. 

Anonymotis. 




i'V^^h^ 




A BALLADE OF THE INVETERATE GOLFER 

ERE yet along the rolling links 
Spring's earliest spear of emerald shows, 
While still the north wind through the chinks 
Its shrewd and shrilly whistle blows, 
He grips his bag of plaid and goes 
Afield with swinging stride and free, 

Sooth, by his very mien one knows, 
A tireless golfing man is he! 

When bums the sun until one blinks. 
So fierce the furnace heat it throws. 

And earth, with lips a-fevered, drinks. 
The dewy draught the dawn bestows, 
52 



Lyrics of the Links 53 

Albeit he reddeneth as the rose, 
And doth perspire most fearfully, 

He heedeth not, and hence one knows 
A tireless golfing man is he! 

When in a murky vapor sinks 

The day, and swift the darkness grows, 
When frost-elves try their cunning "kinks," 

And south wing clamoring the crows. 

E'en till the swirling fall of snows 
He still is seen upon the tee ; 

Sooth, by his very mien one knows 
A tireless golfing man is he ! 

ENVOY 

The rains and snows — these are his foes; 

He has no other woes, perdie! 
Sooth, by his very mien one knows 

A tireless golfing man is he! 

Clinton Scollard. 

LITTLE THINGS 

LITTLE drops of water, 
Little sandy lies. 
Make the mightiest player 
Lose the pleasant prize. 

Anonymous. 



54 Lyrics of the Links 



A SONG OF FOUR SEASONS 
(After Austin Dobson.) 

WHEN Spring comes smiling 
By green and tees, 
All life beguiling 

With balmy breeze; 
Sing heart exulting, 

Sing golf once more. 
Sing game that*s ragged, 
And duffer's score. 

When beams the Summer, 

And skies are blue, 
When songsters warble 

The long days through; 
Sing links are lovely, 

Sing games galore, 
Sing matches many 

And health full store. 

When Autumn rustles 

With woods aglow. 
And days are waning. 

And blossoms go; 
Sing season passing, 

And slanting sun; 
Sing sport surpassing 

And trophies won. 



Lyrics of the Links 55 



When blasts of Winter 

Strip bare the trees, 
In white shroud buried 

Are greens and tees; 
Sing lazy lolling 

By club fire bright? 
Sing red balls rolling; 

Sing rare delight. 

Francis Bowler Keene. 

AN OVER-DRIVE 

ALE white, unspotted by the world, she lies 
In passive patience at his restless feet. 
And waits, unflinching, the fierce blow to meet. 
With arm uplifted, and with sure surmise, 
He takes unerring aim, and utters cries 

Of strange prophetic warning. Far and fleet, 
Across the green, through hazy summer heat. 
She speeds beyond the sight of watching eyes. 

And when her swift and heavenward flight she ends. 
In soft tree-shaded spot, she softly sinks 
And lies, safe-hidden, by the grasses tall. 
While he, alas ! on whom the match depends. 
Walks wearily across the well-laid links. 
And mourns aloud his lost and only ball! 

Sylvia Florance. 



56 Lyrics of the Links 

THE PILLOW SCORE 

MY first drive was a beauty — clean 
Two hundred yards and thirty more ; 
My brassey took me to the green, 

Where I ran down an easy four. 
The second hole I made in par; 

I tied with bogey on the third; 
My drives were straight and true and far. 

The ball went sailing like a bird. 
My putting eye was deadly true, 

And all my iron shots were fine; 
Luck swelled my score a stroke or two. 

But I went out in thirty-nine. 
The tricky tenth I got in three; 

The thirteenth, where I pulled my drive, 
Looked bad, but luckily for me, 

A long putt put me down in five. 
With threes and fours for all the rest. 

In spite of some unlucky lies, 
The score I made was much my best, 

And brouglit me the Directors' prize. 
My driving and my putting, too, 

Were simply perfect, as I've said; 
This all occurred when I was through 

And played the game again— in bed» 

S, E. Riser. 



Lyrics of the Links 57 

JINXES OFFICE 

THE 'phone bells are a-ringing; everybody's on the 
jump, 
As the clacking of the ticker tells the story of the 

slump ; 
The clerks are dazed and frightened as the market 

lower sinks, 
For they don't know where the boss is — they have lost 

all trace of Jinx. 
The manager's exhausted and the office boy's all in. 
The stenographer has fainted in the turmoil and the din ; 
For the market keeps on sagging, as poor lambs are 

shorn of wool, 
Andthoughat golf Jinx is a bear, on 'Change he is a bull. 
At last they have him spotted and he's dragged in 

from the links. 
And then his frantic manager unfolds the news to Jinx 
Over the 'phone as best he can, in choking voice and sad ; 
And Jinx replies: "Why, goodness me, now isn't that 

too bad !" 
The boss continues speaking: "Say, just have Miss 

Blossom call 
Up Lombard Eight-0-Seven-Two and ask for Jimmie 

Ball, 
And tell him that the brassey which he made me doesn't suit, 
But the driver is a corker and the putter is a beaut." 

A. W. Tillinghast. 



58 



Lyrics of the Links 



S 



GOLFAIYAT 

OME take a Brassey wlaen they play the Game, 
Or with a Cleek carve out the way to Fame ; 
And some there be wlio but a Pencil Stub 
Have used, and yet have Got There just the Same. 

Anonymous. 




Lyrics of the Links 59 



T 



AN AMATEUR'S ROSARY 

HE hours I've searched for you, dear ball, 
Were long and weary, I'll confess ; 
And only one thing was to blame for all, 

My awkwardness, my awkwardness ! 
Each drive a slice, a slice that sent 

You sailing out for parts unknown; 
How often have I walked and searched and bent 

With weary groan. 

O memories of air made blue ! 

And miles of territory crossed 
In endless labor, for it seemed that you 

Were always lost, dear ball, 

Were always lost. George B. Staff. 

ALL SUFFICIENT 

'Y business is rotten; 
My wife has gone home; 
My cook — she has left me ; 
The cat's gone to roam. 
The neighbors all hate me, 
But gee — I should fret ! 
I played the best game today 
I have played yet! 

Amelia Adams Harrvngton, 



60 Lyrics of the Links 



TO THE MAN WHO LOST 

Hebe's to the man who lost the hole 
Because he found mj ball. 
The match was one to try one's soul — 

My pill had found the "tall" ; 
We'd searched for four long minutes there — 

He found it ; my hopes soared ; 
He dubbed a couple on the fair ; 
"Four-five" that hole I scored. 

Ah, yes, he did just what he should — 

But honor to his name 1 
That ball was lost to me for good, 

And he but played the game. 
So when Saint Peter lifts the latch. 

The gates for him will roll. 
Who found my ball and lost the match, 

But thereby saved his soul. 

S. K. Bennett. 

HELPING THE GAME 

SAID Jimmie Jones to the telephone man: 
I'll have my number changed, if I can. 
I've taken up golf and my aim, you see, 
Is to keep my mind on tlie figure 3. 
Now let me think — what number will do? 
Supposing we say 4-3-3-2? Anoni/moiLS. 



Lyrics of the Links 61 

A BRIGHTER WORLD 

LOOKS as if the world is better 
Than it used to be, 
Even if the rain seems wetter 

And the lightning free ; 
Even if there seems more thunder 

Than we used to hear — 
I've a forearm putt — a wonder 
That I've learned this year. 

Looks as if the world is brighter 

Than in former days, 
Even if the banks are tighter 

And the lank wolf stays. 
Troubles, all imaginary. 

Gather day by day ; 
Playing eighty, regularly. 

Wipes them all away. 

Looks as if the world is cleaner 

Than it used to be; 
Life itself, friends, is serener; 

Leastwise, so to me. 
For my worry is behind me, 

Running all the while; 
Wrinkles nevermore can find me — 

I have found my style. 

Jesse G. Clare. 



THE RAVIN' OF A GOLF MANIAC 

AH, distinctly I remember, 
It was in the bleak December, 
That I pondered, weak and weary, o'er my volumes 
of golf lore. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow 
That I happiness might borrow 

From a game tliat would cause sorrow, sorrow to 

opponents sore. 
To opponents, male and female, who would evermore 

be sore 
At the lowness of my score. 





While I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of someone gently rapping, rapping, saying to me, 

"Fore!" 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "out there, jealous 

of my score ; 
Only this, and nothing more." 



Deep mto that darkness peering. 
Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 

Fearing that a rival had come wandering to my door. 
But the silence was unbroken. 
And the stillness gave no token. 

And the only words there spoken were the whispered 
words, "Your score!" 
Merely this and nothing more. 

63 



64 Lyrics of the Links 

Open then I flung the shutter, 
When, with many a flirt and flutter. 

In there stepped a saucy Caddie, Caddie who knew 
well my score. 
Not the least obeisance made he. 
Not a minute stopped or stayed he, 
But with cool assurance laid he my golf clubs upon the 
floor. 
Then he kicked them — nothing more. 

"Prophet,'* cried I, "thing of evil — 
Prophet still, if boy or devil ! — 

By Chick Evans, Vardon, Travers, and the others 
we adore — 
Tell this would-be champion truly, when will bogey be 
his score?" 
Quoth the Caddie, "Nevermore!" 

"Be that word our sign of parting. 
Boy or friend," I slirieked, upstarting. 

"Get thee back onto the golf links; use your voice 
to call out 'Fore!' 
Do not try to cool my ardor, 
For I'll only practice harder, 

And I know that Col. Bogey I'll be downing with my 
score." 
Quoth the Caddie, "Nevermore!" 



Lyrics of the Links 65 

And the spirit of that Caddie, never flitting, must be 

sitting, 
Still upon my harmless golf clubs that he kicked upon 

the floor. 
For my shots have all the seeming as if played by one 

who's dreaming, 
And with driver, cleek and mashie, I'm the one to call 

out "Fore !" 
Always am I in the background — always do I call out 

"Fore !" 
Good score make I ? Nevermore ! 

Martha Michel Martin. 

SPRIGS OF SOLACE 

WHEN you are always "off' the line,'* 
And can't get down in less than nine, 
'Tis soothing to remember then 
The other chap may take a ten. 

Nor do you feel one-half the ass, 
Carving away great tufts of grass, 
Once you observe the other side 
Is similarly occupied. 
To lose a perfect scarless ball 
May steep your very soul in gall ; 
Yet life somehow regains its fizz 
When your opponent loses his. 

R. P. Keigwm. 



66 Lyrics of the Links 



ODE TO GOLF 

DELUSIVE nymph, farewell !'* 
How oft we've said and sung, 
When balls elusive fell 
Down in the jaws of "Hell," 

Or salt seaweeds among, 
'Mid shingle and sea-shell. 

How oft beside the "burn," 

We play the sad "two more," 

How often at the turn. 

The heather we must spurn ; 

How oft have topped and swore, 

In bent and whin and fern. 

Yes, when the broken head 

Bounds further than the ball, 

The heart has inly bled. 

Ah ! and the lips have said 
Words we would not recall — 

Wild words of passion bred. 

In bunkers all unknown. 

Far beyond "Walkinshaw," 

Where never ball had flown — •< 

Reached by ourselves alone — 
Caddies have heard with awe 

The music of our moan. 



Lyrics of the Links 67 



Yet, nymph, if once alone 
The ball hath featly fled— 

Not smitten from the bone — 

That drive doth still atone ; 
And one long shot laid dead 

Our grief to the winds hath blown. 

So still beside the tee. 

We meet in storm and calm, 

Lady, and worship thee, 

While the loud lark sings free, 
Piping his matin psalm 

Above the grey and sea. 

Andrew Lang. 

y ' GOLFER'S HYMN 

A BAG of clubs, a dimpled ball. 
Fair verdant greens, that rise and fall, 
An azure sky, a glorious sun. 
And a day of golf is well begun. 

A score that does not bring disgrace. 
Good will for all the human race, 
Enjoyment of a setting sun. 
And a splendid day of golf is done. 

E. W. Stamshury. 



68 Lyrics of the Links 



TO A PERFECT PUTT 

"ere's to the perfect shot, my friends, 
A putt on the eighteenth green — 
The shot upon which the match depends ! 

Across that emerald sheen 
I concentrate with my ev'ry force 
My ball of white must mark its course 
And into that hole must fall ! 
To guide my wayward ball. 

The match for seventeen holes has run 

And now must be settled here ; 
The glory's now to be lost or won 

On the twist of that little sphere. 
So thinking too hard of how much depends 

My senses completely fade — 
Yes, here's to the perfect putt, my friends, 

The putt that I never made ! 

S. K. Bennett 

UNTIL I DIE 

IHAE play'd in the frost and the thaw, 
I hae play'd since the year thirty- three, 
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw, 
And I trust I may play till I dee. 

Andrew Lang. 



Lyrics of the Links 69 



THE THREE FATES 

WHEN with a vicious body twist 
Your waist beats out your lagging wrist. 
And arms snatched jerkily to breast 
Tell plainly to the world you've pressed — 
That's Slice ! 

And when with sweeping forward move 
You shove the club-head down the groove, 
So that your hands — and all of you — 
Come trailing in the follow-through — 
That's Hook! 

But when with rhythm smooth and sweet. 
Well-poised and steady on the feet, 
Unmoving head, unhurried eye, 
You sweep the ball straight as a die — 
That's Heaven ! 

Joseph Chapman. 

STYMIE 

CONVERSATION Is vexatioR ; 
Looking up is bad ; 
A top from the tee 
Perplexes me, 

But a stymie drives me mad. 

Anonymous. 



70 Lyrics of the Links 



EARLY GOLF 

COURSE heavy, 
Grass wet, 
Slip, slide, 
Cuss, fret. 

Game over. 

Got beat. 
Bad case 

Cold feet. 

Pay caddie, 

Pay bet. 
Run home 

And forget. 

Next day, 

As before, 
Back again 

For more. 

J. H, Smith. 



Lyrics of the Links 



THE ONE BEST TIP 

HERE is the science and sum of it all — 
Keep your eye on the ball ! 
Tlirough fair green or hazard or grass that is tall — 

Keep your eye on the ball ! 
No matter the distance, how short or how far, 
No matter your game, be you duffer or star. 
There is only one way you can hole out in par — 
Keep your eye on the ball ! 

Over the course comes the clarion call — 

Keep your eye on the ball ! 
One little turn and you're in for a fall — 

Keep your eye on the ball! 
Whether its golf or the game we call Life, 
Down the Long Course where the tumult is rife, 
Over the hazards and bunkers of strife — 

Keep your eye on the ball! 

Anonymoiis. 

GOLF VERSUS NATURE. 

THE sunbeams flood the links around, 
The clouds float overhead ; 
But that which fillctli me with joy, 
Is the shot I've laid stone-dead. 



72 Lyrics of the Links 

The robin singeth in the hedge, 

The leaves dance in the breeze ; 
But with a four foot putt to make 

Who ever thinks of these? 

The brooklet flashes in the sun, 

And chatteth in its flow 
Unto the ball I've topped in it. 

One up and two to go ! 

But when at last the match is mine, 

And I am filled with glee, 
Then sun and clouds and trees and birds 

Shall all rejoice with me. 

Anonymous. 

NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS 

SWEAR off" pulling, swear off slicing, 
Swear off" ever looking up ; 
Swear off doing all but shooting 
For the center of the cup. 

Swear off topping, over-swinging, 

As you stand upon the tee; 
Swear off* doing all but holing 

Out in three. 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 73 



NOCTURNAL GOLF 

I PLAYED a wonderful game — for me — 
And found, when I'd got all through, 
That I'd cut my score to a 43 
From my usual 62. 

On the first, which commonly takes me an 8, 

Because I am not warmed up. 
My drive and brassey were long and straight, 

And my fifth dropped into the cup. 

On the second, where I so often dub, 

With both of my wooden sticks, 
I was' there like a duck with either club 

And holed in a bogey 6. 

On the third, where one of the apple trees 

Habitually stops my drive, 
I missed the fruit with the greatest ease, 

And was down in a nice par 5. 

I shunned both hazards on No. 4, 

The bois and the deep ravine. 
And trimmed two strokes from my normal score 

By mashieing to the green. 



74 Lyrics of the Links 

On the fifth, where I frequently take a dip 

Or two in the seething foam, 
Two aerial swats and a mashie chip 

Were plenty to bring me home. 

On the sixth, where my second is wont to seek 

A nest in the tall uncut, 
I stopped at the edge with my third, a cleek, 

And was in with my second putt. 

On the seventh — (they call it a mashie pitch, 
And Lord! how youVe got to soar!) 

I flew high over the hellish ditch. 
And was down in a couple more. 

On the eighth — it's one of those tricky holes, 

And a 6 is my common lot — 
I cleared the cunning but nasty knolls 

With a beautful midiron shot. 

On the ninth, where in every unfriendly match, 

I chum with the Horti Cult, 
I scorned Mrs. Wiggs and her cabbage patch, 

And a 6 was the result. 

I made the nine in a 43 

Last night, as I lay in bed. 
Oh, golf is no trouble at all for me 

When I play a round in my head. 

King W. Lardner. 



Lyrics of the Links 75 



A GOLFER'S WISH 

I HAVE no wish to dress in silk, 
I do not care to wear a crown, 
I do not yearn to bathe in milk, 

Or champagne wash my dinner down. 

I have no great desire to be 

A man of much importance here, 

And have the public welcome me 

With bands of brass when I appear. 

And should a fairy, kind and good. 
Grant me one favor, without price, 

I'd make this golfer's prayer, I would: 
"Oh, kindly rid me of my slice !" 

I am not one intent on fame; 

I do not care to lead the throng; 
Though strangers never hear my name, 

Contentedly I'll plod along. 

Enough to eat, enough to wear. 
And strength to do my daily task. 

With now and then a chance to fare 
On pleasure's ways, is all I ask. 



76 Lyrics of the Links 

But should a fairy come to me 

And say: "What joy will you suffice? 
I'll grant one wish. What shall it be?" 

I'd answer: "Rid me of my slice!" 
You that have never swung a club 

And drawn its face across the ball, 
And muttered to yourself, "You dub!" 

As in a curve you watched it fall, 

May never guess the rage that lies 

Within that shortened arc of flight. 
Nor how men curse the fall that flies 

With loss of distance, to the right. 
But every golfing fiend will know 

Why gold and fame I'd sacrifice. 
If but some fairy, good, would show 

Me how to drive without a slice. 

Edgar A. Guest. 
WHEN I PUTT 

WHEN I putt it seems to me 
The whole world's in conspiracy. 
The jangling church bell in the far-off tower, 
Tolling the knell of the departing hour; 
The fleeting shadow of the scudding cloud; 
The caddies' whisper, sibilant and loud ; 
The twittering sparrows in the near-by tree- 
Are all allied to worry me, 
When I putt. 



Lyrics of the Links 77 

When I putt I clearly see 
Dragon flies make darts at me, 
While droning beetles and buzzing bees 
And locusts singing in the trees, 
And croaking frogs in the muddy pond, 
With honking Fords in the road beyond, 
And cawing crows, with unfeigned glee, 
All join to fret and worry me. 
When I putt. 

When I putt the wriggling worm 
Crawls on my line with slimy squirm ; 
While spry mosquitoes flock round my head. 
Till I miss the putt that I've laid dead ; 
And caterpillars, void of etiquette, 
Move on the green when I am set ; 
With one to go and Jock one up. 
My ball just hangs on the lip of the cup. 

When I putt. Joseph A. Campbell. 

THE MAN OF MANY CLUBS 

HE owns a dozen drivers and of brasseys not a few; 
He invests in all the patents that inventions bring 
to view. 
He has oft been disappointed, but he hopes some happy 

day 
That he'll happen on a treasure that will teach him 
how to play. Anonymous. 



78 Lyrics of the Links 



YESTERDAY 

I've trod the links with many a man, 
And played him club for club; 
'Tis scarce a year since I began, 

And I am still a dub. 
But this I've noticed as we strayed 

Along the bunkered way : 
No one with me has ever played 
As he did yesterday. 

It makes no difference what the drive; 

Together as we walk, 
Till we up to the ball arrive, 

I get the same old talk. 
"Today, there's something wrong with me, 

Just what I cannot say. 
Would you believe I got a three 

On this hole — yesterday.'" 

I see them top and slice a shot, 

And fail to follow through, 
And with their brasseys plough the lot. 

The very way I do. 
To six and seven their figures run, 

And then they sadly say: 
"I neither dubbed nor foozled one, 

When I played — yesterday." 



Lyrics of the Links 79 

I have no yesterdays to count, 

No good work to recall ; 
Each morning sees hope proudly mount, 

Each evening sees it fall. 
And in the locker room at night, 

When men discuss their play, 
I hear them, and I wish I might 

Have seen them — yesterday. 

dear old yesterday ! Wliat store 
Of joys for men you hold ! 

I'm sure there is no day that's more 

Remembered or extolled. 
Fm off my task myself a bit. 

My mind has run astray ; 

1 think, perhaps, I should have writ 

Tliese verses — yesterday. 

Edgar A. Guest. 

AFTER THE FOURSOME 

What the losers said to each other: 

o long. Bob, Ta, ta, Jim, 

Rotten shame. I'm to blame. 

We couldn't win, We didn't win 

But that's the game. The bally game. 



80 Lyrics of the Links 

You played great, You played fine, 

I threw you down. I was off — 

Still, let's smile You know the way 

Though fortune frown. It is in golf. 

What they told the other chaps: 

Yes, we lost ! Beat us bad ! 

Poor old Bob Jim was off; 

Couldn't hit Might play marbles, 

A thing, begob! Couldn't golf. 

Fanned the air Missed his drives, 

Twice at least. Couldn't putt. 

Got my goat — • Lost me "twenty" — 

Sloppy beast ! Silly mutt ! 



What the xvinmers said: 

Rather soft? 
Right, old thing! 
Beat 'em easy. 
Quite a string. 
Serves 'em right! 
Awful rot 
Playing with 'em — 
Rather, what? 

W. Hastings Wehling. 



Lyrics of the Links 81 



THE EASY GO CLUB 

I COME now with me to the beautiful links 
That lie near the city of Joy, sir, 
Where the caddy boy sits and complacently blinks, 
And never a lie doth annoy, sir. 

O come to the links of the Easy Go club. 

And let us put in the fair hours 
Where there's never a duffer and never a flub. 

No matter how meagre our powers. 

Where there isn't a trouble from first to last tee 

That isn't o'ercome by a ruling; 
Where the golfer is bold and the golfer is free, 

And not a soul needs any schooling. 

Where whatever may hap to the gutty that flies. 

If it fall in a bunker or puddle, 
You always can lift it, whatever your "lies," 

And thus get you out of your muddle. 

Where penalty strokes are forever unknown, 

On fair green, in ditch, or in bog, sir; 
Where golf is as easy as gnawing a bone 

To the average ravening dog, sir. 



82 Lyrics of the Links 

Where golf is so easy that any can play 

Who has a mere knacklet for hitting ; 
And even old ladies are found day by day 

Who declare it's as pleasant as knitting. 

O come, come away to the Easy Go club. 

Where hazards are empty as bubbles ; 
Where there's never a duffer and never a flub, 

Since Ground Rules abolish all troubles. 

John Kendrick Bangs. 

A BOGEY DREAM 

A NOTED golfer in a dream 
Once drove a ball so clean 
It sailed right through the summer sky 
And landed on the green. 

It did not stop at number one. 

Great guns! Upon my soul! 
It bounded on from green to greeRo 

Right near the eighteenth hole 

It spun around a moment, 
Then ceased its speedy spin; 

The wind blew out the flagstick, and 
The little ball rolled in. 

R. G. Holland. 



Lyrics of the Links 83 

FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY 

I FELT in my bones I'd swamp Bixby, 
When we played that last match for the cup ; 
Impatient was I for the struggle, 

For I knew I'd about eat him up. 
And slyly I winked at the caddie 

As I took out that driver of mine, 
And swished a few daisies for practice, 

Just to show how I'd be down the line. 
That was Faith! 
But something went wrong with my schedule ; 

At the turn I was six to the bad ; 
For nine weary holes I'd encountered 

Just the worst luck a man ever had. 
But surely I'd soon get a-going ; 

Perhaps he'd start topping and flub; 
Or maybe I'd lay him a stymie; 

He was due for a break, the old dub ! 
That was Hope! 
But all things must come to a finish ; 

Seven and six was the beating I got. 
I pictured the crowd at the clubhouse ; 

The thought of their gibes made me hot. 
"Well, what's the result?" came the chorus ; 

And I waited his crowing with dread ; 
"I happened to have rare good fortune. 

And I won." That was all Bixby said. 

That was Charity! Anonymous. 



84 Lyrics of the Links 



SILENCE AT THE TEE 

No player, caddie or onlooker should move or talk 
during a stroke. — Etiquette of Golf. 

THIS the fateful momeiit, 
Let all things quiet be ; 
For now the golfer's ready. 
The ball is on the tee. 

Don't move while he's addressing; 

To whisper do not dare; 
And when his club he's wagging 

No sound must stir the air. 

Should aught distract attention, 

It might disturb his poise 
And cause the man to foozle. 

So do not make a noise. 

Let not a sigh escape you, 

Don't speak or laugh or sneeze; 

Let all the birds cease singing, 

And hush thou murmuring breeze! 

The crickets must stop chirping. 

And insects buzz no more; 
The broad and restless ocean 

Must quell its mighty roar. 



Lyrics of the Links 



85 



The deep voice of the thunder 
Shall not be heard aloud ; 

There must not be a shadow 
From fleeting summer cloud. 

In fact, I think there's danger 

Within a simple wink — 
And in so great a crisis 

Perhaps one should not think 1 

O'er earth and all creation 
Hang silence like a pall! 

And let it not be lifted 

Till the golfer hits the ball. 

Frank J. Bonnelle. 



-I -think there's 

danger 

Within a simple vdnlt-' 




86 Lyi'ics of the Links 

A WONDERFUL SCORE 

THIS is a tale of a golfer grand, 
A famous man to drive, 
And how he made our nine hole course 
In a score of 45. 

An easy short first hole was ours, 

Its cognomen was *'Bun"; 
And our famous friend began his round 

By making it in 1. 

Then next he drove two hundred yards 

And landed on the "Zoo" 
(This green was near a barnyard fence) 

And holed his putt in 2. 

The third was guarded by an oak, 

And so we called it "Tree" ; 
In spite of many obstacles 

He made this hole in 3. 

He did not drive so well next time, 

In going to the "Store'*; 
But Tv-ith a lucky brassey shot 

He drew an easy 4. 

His ball was bunkered at the fifth, 

Down by the carriage drive; 
But still he got out beautifully 

And ran it down in 5. 



Lyrics of the Links 87 

The course now lengthened out a bit 

In going to the "Styx" ; 
And while he did his best he found 

He did the sixth in 6. 

The next was on a little hill 

And therefore nicknamed "Heaven" ; 

Our friend inclined to think it — well, 
It only cost him 7. 

Right here he lost his nerve a bit 

In going down to "Fate"; 
He found two bunkers on the way 

And so he scored an 8. 

The ninth and last hole near the club 
Was aptly called "The Wine"; 

Here, foozling every shot he tried. 
He found the cup in 9. 

We've often heard strange tales, and more 

We'll hear, if we survive ; 
But liars alone can make this score — 

A consecutive 45. 

Walter N. P. Barrow. 



88 Lyrics of the Links 



A SONG OF THE GAME 

There's a song that is sung, though I don't know 
the words, 
It sets my poor brain in a whirl ; 
It tells of how rarely the lover finds fairly 

The time, and the place, and the girl. 
And golf is like love — though you may not agree 

That it Iiolds true in every case — but 
You seldom, if ever, get all three together, 
The drive, the approach and the putt. 

There's my partner now — (with the wind at his back) — 

Gets a drive that brings joy to his soul; 
And when he approaches there's no need of coaches, 

He just lays them dead to the hole. 
But when once on the green, my opponent's been seen 

Taking many a game from the rut ; 
But they seldom, if ever, get all three together, 

The drive, the approach and tlip putt. 

As for you and myself, we've a style of our own 

As we step to the ball on the tee ; 
And in practice our swing is a beautiful thing, 

Worth crossing the ocean to see. 
Each has in his bag, as he starts for the flag, 

A club of some special device, 
But even with this, tliere is often a miss. 

Or a top, or a pull, or a slice. 



Lyrics of the Links 89 

Suppose, if you like, that our friendship's the game — 

That the drive is the grasp of your hand ; 
The approach the straight look from your eyes when 
you took 

Our measure, as men understand. 
The putt- — well, that's home and what reckon take we 

If the home be a mansion or hut ; 
For our friendship's forever and holds all together, 

The drive, the approach and the putt. D. W. C, 

THE LORELEI OF THE GOLF LINKS 

A Presence hovering o'er the place, 
Dim as a soft, alluring vision ; 
A laughing, tempting, maddening face, 

Unheeded the scarce veiled derision. 
A witch, weaving a fateful spell. 

As any pot of midnight brewing, 
Accomplishing a purpose fell 

With neither toads nor black cat mewing. 
No cabalistic 
Chanting mystic, 
No midnight riding 
Broom bestriding. 
No grim oblation. 
No incantation. 
No magic spells, no charm at all — 
Only a driver and a ball. 

Rose Champion de Crespigny. 



90 Lyrics of the Links 



FOOZLESOME'S SPRING SONG 

Now some may like a blithesome sea. 
And some the mountain peaks, 
And some the verdant, valley lea, 

For the lazy summer weeks. 
But better far than mount or surf 
Give me the emerald-gleaming turf. 

The mad March wind has dried the sod. 
The springtime sun is warm; 

My club is now a magic rod 
To summon many a form 

And spirit vnt\\ a sporting heart 

Who loves the Ancient, Royal At t. 

The fight is on — the day is keen — 
And down the rolling course, 

From point to point and tee to green, 
The swinging driver's force 

Speeds the brave ball and cleaves the blue 

As cheerily I follow through. 

I gaily lead, o'er stream, o'er mead, 

Contesting every shot. 
Pegasus- — airy, fairy steed — 

Ne'er ran a race so hot ; 
Till at the eighteenth's brimming hole 
My putter flashes past the goal. 



Lyrics of the Links 91 

Ah, good old Life, and all thy ways, 

I've loved thee since a boy; 
And thy best gift, my golfing days, 
, Pure gold, without alloy. 

Abide with me, clear Eye, strong Heart, 
And all thy blessings, Ancient Art. 

Anonymous. 

THE PHANTOM LINKS 

WHEN figures play me countless tricks, 
And letters jar. 
My fancy hies to golfing sticks 
And fields afar. 

When city's rush and roll and strife 

Encompass me, 
On wings I fly where sport is rife 

And heart is free. 

When grim and dull the walls uplift 

Their dingy gray, 
I veil my eyes and fondly drift 

In dreams away. 

So while the slaveys of my mind 

In toil are cast. 
The phantom links, forever kind, 

Will hold me fast. 

Horace Seymour Kellar, 



92 Lyrics of the Links 



YOUR CADDIE AND YOU 

E is with jou every minute, in the smooth and in 
the rough, 
And your caddie's quick to sense it if you're made of 

proper stuff. 
If you bear your trials bravely, if you do the best you 

can, 
You will find the little fellow trying hard to be a man. 

If you show the proper spirit when you meet mis- 
fortune grim, 

You'll be making a courageous and a plucky chap of 
him. 

But if you're overbearing and the speech of brutes 
employ, 

You are ruining the morals and the manhood of the 
boy. 

He's a manly little fellow, and he wants to do what's 

right, 
But he's quick to sense injustice and his breast Is full 

of fight. 
So remember when he doesn't always do as he should do, 
And you find that he is careless, that the fault may 

lie with you. 

Edgar A. Guest. 



Lyrics of the Links 03 



THE CALLING OF THE LINKS 

THO* the telephone is ringing, 
And the typist ticks away; 
Tho' the office boy is bringing 

Lots of mail to me today, 
Something calls me, something lures me, 
Something whispers in my ear: 

"Come! the sun is out and shining! 
Come ! the sky is blue and clear !" 
{Oh, Ws harder, let me tell you., than anybody thinks. 
To resist that sweet, seductive voice, the callvng of the 
links!) 



Here, with buying and with selling, 

Sordid things oppress the mind; 
There, fair nature has her dwelling 

And all cares are left behind. 
And the pleasure, beyond measure, 
Of free motion in the air — 

Good companions, pleasant breezes, 

And tlie greensward everywhere ! 
{Oh, it's deep into my bosom that the country longing 

sinks. 
And I cannot choose but hear it — the calling of the 
links!) 



94 



Lyrics of the Links 



Shut the desk on all the letters ! 
Let the dry old fogies frown 
(Though my elders and my betters). 

And farewell the dusty town ! 
Something calls me, and I'll answer. 
Something lures me and I fall ; 

For the cry of "fore" is sounding. 
And the whizzing of the ball. 
(O/i, ifs harder, let me tell you, than the dry old fogy 

thinks, 
To resist that sweet seductive voice, the calling of the 
links!) 

ATvna Emilia Lang. 



Som^Kiit^ calls me, some^Kuig^ 
lures me- ' 




Lyrics of the Links 95 



THE WOOD 

'fT^is fine to sink a ten foot putt, 

A There's pleasure in a mashie shot ; 
The well-plajed niblick from the rut 

Delights and thrills the soul a lot. 
When I approach in manner neat 

It pleases me and does me good ; 
But no sensation is so sweet 

As perfect timing of the wood. 

Let experts, in opinions wise, 

Extol the iron, as they will, 
And tell of all the joy that lies 

Within a shot that's played with skill. 
IVe read their books and papers through, 

And some of them I've understood ; 
But there's no thrill that's equal to 

The perfect timing of the wood. 

O, sweet the thrill that comes to me 

When I have launched a proper drive ! 
I stand and watch it from the tee 

The proudest, happiest man alive. 
What matters if I lose the hole 

By dubbing strokes I never should? 
I have, to soothe my troubled soul, 

The joy that's only bom of wood. 



96 Lyrics of the Links 

Not all the charm of putts that drop, 

Nor all the thrills of irons straight. 
Can compensate for drives I top 

Or brassey shots I meet too late. 
All other pleasures I'd forego 

And gladly, if I only could 
The game's supremest joy to tnow — 

The perfect timing of the wood. 

Edgar A. Guest, 

THE NINETEENTH HOLE 

THE nineteenth hole ! The game is done ! 
Now for the laughter and the fun ! 
Recounting all the strokes we've played, 
The little putts that sadly strayed, 
The easy holes we should have won. 

From lip to lip the stories run, 
And never-ended tales begun. 

We reach it joyous, undismayed, 
The nineteenth hole. 
Good Lord, when all is said and done, 
And darkness comes with setting sun. 
May I, with conscience unafraid. 
Turn in the score that I have made, 
Nor fear with coward heart to shun 
The nineteenth hole. 

Henri/ Litchfield West. 



Lyrics of the Links 



97 




Oh, a mascot 
for nvy hoodool 



A CHRONIC SEMI-FINALIST 

'm a semi-final hoodoo ; 
I'm afraid 
I can never do as you do, 

Jimmie Braid. 
I've a genius not to do it, 
I excel at almost to it, 
But I never can go through it, 

I'm afraid. 

I have seen how Hilton plays it, 

I, dismayed, 
And each problem how he weighs it, 

Unafraid. 
Straight he goes, for woe or weal. 
And his nerves are bits of steel. 
Made to work and not to feel ; 

Thus he played. 



98 Lyrics of the lAnhs 

Now it's just as plain as can be, 

I can't putt; 
So I must an also-ran be, 

In a rut. 
Hilton ! Could I do as you do ! 
Oh, a mascot for my hoodoo ! 
Travis, tell me how 'tis you do 

That small putt. 

So this is a heartfelt cry 

Of my muse. 
Fate, I beg you hear my sigh. 

Don't refuse. 
I ask not the nation's prize. 
But the finals tempt my eyes — 
Halfway finals I despise, 

When I lose. 

Oh, a mascot, for I'm ever 

One of four; 
Quatrefoil and horseshoe never 

Brings me more. 
A new mascot do I need, 
Hoodoo-proof and guaranteed 
To the finals it will lead — - 

Nothing more. 

Charles Evans, Jr. 

Note. — The above lament was published in January, 1912, before 
Mr. Evans overcame his hoodoo. 



Lyrics of the Links 99 



B 



THE CLAN ANGORA 

Y the old Soho Pagoda, *neath the spreadin' chest- 
nut tree, 
Sits a crafty, schemin' golfer, an* I know 'e waits for 

me; 
For the breeze is in the tree-tops, an' the whisperin* 

leaves they say, 
"Come on back, you cowardly ducker, for you've got a 
match to play. 

Come on back," I hear them say, 
"Cut out workin' for a day ; 
Can't you 'ear the irons clickin' as they send the balls 
away? 

Get a 'ustle ! On your way ! 
Let your business slide today. 
'Urry up ! Your man is waitin' an' you've got a match 
to play." 

'Is golfin' shoes is buckskin, an' 'e wears an' old white 

'at, 
An' 'is motions are delib'rate, but 'e's foolin' you with 

that; 
For I seed 'im first a-drivin' with a iron off the tee, 
An' 'is golfin' style was rotten an' 'e looked a cinch to 
me. 

"Get 'im out," I cries in glee, 
*'For 'e's easy meat to me ; 



100 Lyrics of the Links 

Get 'im out and make 'im 'urry for 'is Goat belongs 
to me. 

Get 'im out to play with me, 
An' you all can come and see 
'Ow I'll lick 'im to a frazzle — 'e's rot one-two-three 
with me." 

So they watched us an' I played 'im ; I 'ad to give 'im 

six; 
An' I started off rambunctious, unsuspicious of 'is 

tricks ; 
For 'e couldn't drive a golf ball half as far as I could 

clout, 
But that seemed to make no diff'rence when the 'ole was 
putted out. 

For 'e'd keep right on the flag. 
An' when 'is playing seemed to lag. 
An' I thought I'd surely got 'im, 'e'd a new shot in 'is bag. 
An' I felt my spirits sag, 
An' my leaden feet to drag, 
As'e laid a sty mie on me when I'd played dead to the flag. 

So we tramped the bloomin' greensward, an' I never 'ad 

a show. 
For the robber, 'e'd be waitin', let me play 'em fast or 

slow; 
An' my bloomin' heart was breakin' when I 'ad a putt 

to win. 



Lyrics of the Links 101 

As 'is cut shot (taught by Mackie), for a *arf went 
down the tin. 

An' the world seemed cold and gray, 
As I 'eard 'im slyly say: 
"Gee, it's funny 'ow your tee shots always find the 
rough today !" 

An' I cursed 'is leerin' look, 
Wlien my second reached the brook, 
An' 'e sa^^s, "I know'd you get it. Do you always play 
the 'ook.?" 

So I played 'im and 'e beat me. Yes, 'e done me good 

an' brown. 
When we added up the score card four an' three 'e 'ad 

me down. 
An' I own a murd'rous impulse when I 'eard the jeerin' 

note 
In the beggar's dev'lish chuckle as I 'anded 'im my 
Goat. 

I was sore and sad and blue ; 
Way down in my 'eart I knew 
That I ought to trim a duffer what ain't got no follow 
through ; 

But I want to say to you. 
An' you know I'm speakin' true, 
Any dub can win by stymies, and the robber laid me two. 

Eugene D. Collins. 



102 Lyrics of the Links 



IF GRAY HAD BEEN A GOLFER 

BENEATH these rugged elms, that maple's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
heap, 
Each in his last eternal bunker laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

Oft to the harvest did their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

Ah, but they had no mashies then to wield. 
They never learned to use the Vardon stroke. 

The poor old souls ! They only lived to toil. 
To sow and reap and die, at last, obscure; 

They never with their niblick tore the soil — 
How sad the golfless annals of the poor ! 

The pomp of power may once have thrilled the souls 

Of unenlightened men — today it sinks 
Beneath the saving grace of eighteen holes ! 

The paths of glory lead but to the links. 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart that would have quickened to the game; 
Hands that the lovely baffy might have swayed, 

To Colonel Bogey's everlasting shame. 



Lyrics of the Links 103 

Full many a hole was passed by them unseen. 
Because no fluttering flag was hoisted there ; 

Full many a smooth and sacred putting green 
They tore up with the plough, and didn't care. 

Some village Taylor, that with dauntless breast 
Could whang the flail or swing the heavy maul ; 

Some mute inglorious Travis here may rest, 
Some Harriman who never lost a ball. 

Far from the eager foursome's noble strife 
They levelled bunkers and they piled the hay, 

Content to go uncaddied all through life. 
And never were two up and one to play ! 

No further seek their hardships to disclose, 
Nor stand in wonder at their lack of worth ; 

Here in these bunkers let their dust repose ; 
They didn't know St. Andrews' was on earth. 

S. E. Riser. 

PERFECTLY SATISFIED 

THERE was a little man, 
And a handicap he won. 
And the cup it was made of lead, lead, lead; 
It cost a dollar-five, 
But "Goodness, sakes alive, 
Fm tickled half to death," he said, said, said. 

Anonymous. 



104 Lyrics of the Links 



THE LOST BALL 

A LITTLE lost ball am I, the last 
In a dozen, smooth and white ; 
By a terrible, terrible man harassed 
I tremblingly rushed from sight. 
In a certain haven I hide, apart, 

As only a golf ball can — 
A victim I, with a broken heart, 
Of the wicked deceit of man. 

My owner — his name I Avill ne'er disclose; 

You would guess and guess in vain — 
Was reckoned as godly a man that grows, 

And never, no, never, profane. 
Repute that even with faith instilled 

Such a spotless soul as I ! 
And while he waggled, with joy I thrilled, 

There at his feet to lie. 

He swung his weapon — I turned my face, 

Awaiting the swift descent. 
But lo, the earth for an awesome space 

Was battered and torn and rent ! 
He swung again, with a playful smile. 

And a manner stern, austere — 
The club but whistled above, the while 

It sundered the air, anear ! 



Lyrics of the Links 



105 



And then, and then, in a sudden rage. 

He flourished that errant cleek, 
And not for worlds would I soil this page 

With the words I heard him speak ! 
He waggled not, and ho used no care, 

Nor measured the clean, straight course; 
But oh, the pains that he took to swear! 

And he smote with all his force. 

'Twas a grievous blow (in a two-fold sense) 

And shocked and amazed I fled. 
C^er green and bunker and barbed-wire fence 

My shuddering flight was led. 
And here I slumber, 'mid converse sweet, 

Of rabbit and mouse and bird; 
And try to forget, in my calm retreat. 

The terrible things I heard. 

E. L. Sahvn. 




106 "Lyrics of the Links 



FORE 

UPONNE ye tee ye Golfer standes, 
A cruclle Driver in hys handes, 
Wherewitli he means toe smite ye Balle, 
That there soe harmlcsse lyes & smalle. 
It is hys Hope to lightlie playe 
Over ye Hilles & far awaye. 

With firme resolve hys Staunce he takes 
& eke a mightie swingynge makes. 
Ye Balle, scarce hurtte, skippes merrilie 
Straighte toe ye Bunker from ve Tee. 
Ye Golfer is of sorrie mien, 
A frowne uponne hys Browe is seen ; 
Hys wordes, notte often used in printe, 
Wille give one of hys Moode a hinte. 

He sourlie toe ye Bunker goes, 
Whereinne hys Balle hath founde repose. 
Thryce doth he stryve toe loft ye sphere, 
But Sande and Gravclle interfere. 
Ye Balle, unscathed, serenclie lyes. 
Toe mocke ye Man his angrie eyes. 

Butte every Balle must have its daye. 
Atte last ye sphere hath sped awaye ; 
& now ye Golfer, blithe of hearte, 
Thinks he hath wonne a goodlie starte. 
But sad toe telle, he findes hys Balle 



Lyrics of the Links 107 



Hidynge behind a Tar-weed talle. 

He maye notte lifte, he must notte break 

Ye weede, for verie pitie sake. 

Hys frenzied stroke removes ye Weede, 

Butte slight hys profite, sore hys neede ; 

Ye Balle, bewitched, proceeds toe rolle 

Pulle 7 feete intoe a hole, 

A hole that yawnes both deepe & wide, 

With Weede and Gritte on evrie side. 

A stroke is wasted onne ye grounde, 

A seconde, ere ye Balle is founde. 

He roundlie chydcs ye Prince of Sportes, 

Then toe hys Brassey he resortes. 

Ye Balle flyes far, ye Balle flyes faste, 

Untille ye Puttynge Green be paste; 

Butte hys approache is true and straighte ; 

Hys soul of gloome is now elate. 

Like anie Cocke he seemes to strutte, 

For he hath holed a tenne inche Putt. 

Tho' fickle Fortune he invokes, 

Ye nexte is made in 13 strokes. 

Yet onne and onne hys Course he wendes, 

Foul Luck, notte faire, hys pla3'e attendes. 

Hole after Hole is rudelie loste. 

Yet stayes he notte to counte ye coste. 

AUe thro ye sultrie Afternoone 

He knowes hys Starre will rise oftsoone; 



108 Lyrics of the Links 

Nor hath hys goUynge ardor waned 

Untille ye 18th Hole is gained. 

Ye score doth show with rude dispatche 

Howe he hath more than mette hys matche. 

Thus blue of Minde & wearied sore, 

He seeks ye cosie Club once more. 

Well may ye carpynge critic aske, 
Why he performes soe harde a taske; 
& hath ye Pastime syne a name — 
'Tis Golfe, anne Anciente Scottish game. 

Benj. Ay mar. 

DECEMBER 

THE ball and bat are laid away, 
The umpire's voice is still ; 
The bleacherites no longer bray 
O'er diamond bleak and chill. 

The pigskin drops disconsolate, 

The flying wedg(J has flown ; 
Shorn are the locks that on each pate 

Erst formed a hirsute crown. 

But lo ! upon the landscape hoar, 

A scarlet form appears, 
And frequent bellowings of "Fore!" 

Assail our frosted ears. 

ilf . W. Fool. 



Lyrics of the Links 109 

STOW THE STICKS 

WHEN Autumn's chill is o'er the land, 
And maple leaves are turning gold ; 
When coal trucks are on every hand, 
And Summer's radiant tale is told ; 
Wlien steam first crackles through the pipe. 

And geese fly southward day by day ; 
When hunters trek the fen for snipe, 
Then, golfers, stow your sticks away. 

When days are short and nights are long. 

And sweethearts hover 'round the grate; 
Wlien winds no longer croon a song, 

But shriek in tones that irritate; 
When Summer drinks have disappeared. 

And rye and bourbon hold full sway ; 
When stalwart trees stand gaunt and seared, 

Then, golfers, stow your sticks away. 

Just bid the caddie sad farewell. 

And in your lockers put away 
The pristine balls, that eke would tell 

The splendid scores you did not play; 
Go, golfers, get an ample stock 

Of rock-and-rye without delay; 
Then get your blanket out of hock, 

And stow your golfing sticks away. 

C. P. McDonald. 



110 Lyrics of the Links 



MY FIRST GOLF CUP 

I TOOK it home with me, and on the way 
I carried it with tender, loving pride; 
It meant so much to me, for, strange to say, 
The crimson bag a golf cup held inside. 

I was not in the first flight — not at all ! 

The humble fourth contained my modest name ; 
And yet no champion follower of the ball 

E'er struggled harder on the road to fame. 

I kept the faith ! No Scotch, not even when 
I labored moistly through a soggy rain ; 

Each night in bed just as the clock struck ten, 
In order that my nerves might stand the strain. 

Each match hard fought, and when the round was done, 

I felt exceeding joy within my soul. 
I nearly fainted when at last I won 

My final match upon the eighteenth hole. 

To me that cup looked tall as Eiffel tower! 

It shone resplendent as the noonday sun; 
Nor costliest jewel in my lady's bower 

Was half so radiant to look upon. 



Lyrics of the Links 



111 



But when at home I placed that cup on view, 
Running the gantlet of three pairs of eyes, 

I heard this comment: "Honestly, did you 

Work three whole days to get this dinky prize?^ 



Henry Litchfield West. 




It shone resplendent^ 
as IKe noond^ svjx 



112 Lyrics of the Links 



GOLF LINKS 

WHAT are the links of golf we prize? 
The ground o'er which the fine drive flies? 
The dirt of acres finely kept? 
The putting greens so smoothly swept? 
The fair green 'twixt the magic holes? 
The guiding flags on teasing poles? 
The long grass out of which we pitch? 
The bunker, hazard, pond and ditch? 

Not these true golfers love the most, 
Though over them we like to boast. 

These eartlily links are paths serene 

To things of nobler worth unseen. 
Golf clubs are rivets that secure; 
Strong links of chains that long endure. 

We name a few. Each golfer knows 

How link to link his own chain grows. 

Nature 

Golf links to Nature — dear old dame — 
Her skies, her sward, her trees. The game 
On breast of Mother Earth we play, 
And learn to love her more each day. 



Lyrics of the Links 113 

Health 

Golf links to Health. Hygeia's grace 
Doth weary muscle, brain, replace 

Through stride and swing, and open pores, 

In sunny air, God's out-of-doors. 

Peace 
Golf links to Peace. Far from the mind 
It drives the cobwebs, soothes the grind 

Of business, trouble, care and fret. 

In golf, life's bunkers we forget. 

HoNOK 

Golf links to Honor, for we dare 
A count and contest strictly fair. 

We play the lie, confess the stroke, 

Nor let our shame untruth provoke. 

Men 

Golf links to Men. No lonesome thrives. 

We putt into each other's lives. 

Our sticks are hooks both keen and strong 
That grip our friendship tight and long. 

Self 
Golf links to Self. The noblest soul, 
Not Colonel Bogey, wins the hole. 

The gentleman, self-mastered, high, 

Plays par with self to victory. 



114 Lyrics of the Links 

■■^■^■^^^^^^^^^^■^^^^^^— ^^^^— — ^^^^■■■^~— '■^^~^~~'— — — ^— — ? 

God 

Golf links to God. For, in His sight, 

Both work and play, when done aright, 
Help men to grow. And manhood true 
Best shows the world what God can do. 

Prizes 

Golf wins these prizes of our game — 
Above all titles, cups and fame ; 

Within the reach of all they lie. 

Why love we golf? You now know why. 

W. C. Bitting. 



IN THE SPRING 

IN the spring a richer tinting comes upon the verdant 
scene ; 
In the spring the eager golfers crowd once more around 

the green; 
In the spring a mighty longing sweeps the city's 

crowded plots ; 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
mashie shots. 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 115 



TO THE INEXPRESSIBLE GLOBE. 

STAY there, thou ball, stay there ! 
Upon thy sandy scat, 
Stay there ! 
What though I'm in a torrid heat? 
What though I fix on thee my eye? 
What though I swing my club on high? 
Never you mind ! 

Stay there! 

Stay there, thou ball, stay there! 
By hurtling clubs unstirred. 
Stay there ! 
It's true my words were best unheard; 
It's true the match for me looks blue; 
It's true I've lost my temper, too — 
But don't let that unsettle you ! 
Never you mind ! 

Stay there ! 

{It stayed there.) 

E. M. Griffith. 



116 Lyrics of the Links 



A GOLFER'S APPEAL TO HIS CLUBS 

SUPPLE-SHAFTED Driver mine, 
Those wayward, impish arts of thine 
Subdue this day. 
Strike true the sphere, with hefty might, 
Guide thou its wings in airy flight, 
Pull not to left nor slice to right — 
Keep straight, I pray. 

I know thou'rt saucy, fickle, coy. 
Canst plunge in grief or raise to joy; 

Thy wrath one dreads. 
Drive not too high, nor on the ground, 
Treat booby-traps with scorn profound. 
And prove that worth is often found 

In wooden heads. 

My Brassey, be this day my friend ; 
With vigorous strokes my cause defend; 

Give wondrous Icngtli. 
Whate'er the lie, do thou be true; 
Ponds, ditches, bunkers, all eschew; 
Remember that from thee is due 

Firmness and strength. 

My Iron, enter not my soul! 
To drive one mad is not thy goal, 
Thou artful wag. 



Lyrics of the Links 117 

Oh, cease thy brutalizing mirth, 
Take clean the ball from Mother Earth, 
And like a patriot show thy worth; 
Strike for the flag. 

Mashie, with thee in form I'm rich; 
This day to "concert" tune thy pitch, 

And I'll be gay. 
Approach with courage well controlled; 
Be not too shy nor yet too bold; 
When near the pin the ball has rolled. 

There bid it stay. 

And when the ball's upon the green. 
My Putter, enter thou the scene. 

And act thy best. 
Leap forth, like mail-clad knight of old. 
Or wrestler with the strangle-hold, 
And firmly, truly, gently-bold, 

Put it to rest. 

Respond my clubs, to this my call! 
Strive all for each and each for all. 

Nor work me ill. 
I'll keep you bright as bright can be, 
But play your saucy tricks on me, 
I'll smash you all across my knee — 

By heaven, I will. 

Anonymous. 



118 Lyrics of the Links 



HIS GALLERY 

THEY followed him throughout the game, 
And shared his triumph with a vim ; 
The air was ringing with his name ; 

The gallery was all for him. 
Throughout the match he set the pace, 
For in the crowd he caught the dim 
Fair vision, where a young girl's face 
Was all the gallery for him. 

THE DUFFER 

WHO is it fares each sunny day 
Around the links, with spirits gay, 
And gets in everybody's way? 
The dufFer. 

Who is it on the green so fair 
Hacks out a sod six inches square 
And leaves the thing to wither there.'' 
The dufFer. 

WTio is it stops to count his score, 
While those behind him yell out "Fore !" 
Then adds the whole thing up once more? 
The duffer. 



Lyrics of the Links 



119 



Who is it in the bunker high 
Scoops with his nibhck toward the sky, 
And causes only sand to fly? 
The duffer. 

Who is it sways and squirms and twists, 
Yet looks up smiling and insists 
He brings the club back with his wrists? 
The dufFer. 

Who is the favored child of Fate, 
Who's skill's as small as heart is great, 
Whom all must love and none may hater 
The dufFer. 

Anonymous 




Scoops 
wl<h his 
nitlick 
torwai-cl 
ihe sky 



120 Lyrics of the Links 



GOLF BALDERDASH 

' rjlWAs Snandrews and the bocJcered oaves 
J- Did slip and bunk as they oftteed. 

The Shemixed Foursomatch. 

He took his bulker club in hand. 

Longtime the glumsome foe he fought: 

So rested he by the sixteenth tee, 
And stood awhile in thought. 

And as in goffish thought he stood, 
The Pottcrhunt, with cheeks aflame, 

Came slicing, and in language rude, 
Damashterisked his game. 

One up ! One up ! Though in a cup — 
The mashie blade went flicker-flack — 

He bolted it out and with a shout 
He came two-upping back. 

And hast thou flogged the Potterhunt? 

Come to the bar, my bcerish boy! 
Oh, pargolf day ! Hu(c)roo! Hu(c)ray! 

He hiccoughed in his joy. 

'Twas Snandrews and the bockered oaves 
Did slipe and bunk as they oftteed; 

All grimsey were the caddiecoves. 
And the plusfours outdeed. 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 121 



RESUSCITATION 

PODGERS treads the verdant links 
With blithesome steps and gay, 
Humming, as he tramps along, 

Some rhythmic roundelay. 
His heart pulsates with proud delight, 

He scents the breath of fame. 
For sure as fate he's struck a gait, 
And Podg. is on his game. 

Podgers views with pitying eye 

His poor opponent, who 
Sees naught of glamor in the game 

Or beauty in the view; 
Who silently, in morbid mood. 

Doth foozle, fuss and fume, 
And seems to miss ecstatic bliss 

In clouds of mental gloom. 

Podgers plays with airy grace. 

And drives both straight and free; 
His brasseys often reach the green; 

He putts unerringly. 
In fact, he's playing such a game 

That youthful dreams revive, 
And to his joy, the dear old boy 

Gets round in eighty-five. 



122 Lyrics of the Links 

Podgers wins out easily: 

"Four up and three to play!" 
Sorrows of the painful past 

Are buried deep today. 
He struts the club triumphantly 

And treats the crowd, you bet, 
And cries "Beware, you boys, for there 

Is life in the old dog yet!" 

W. Hastmgs Wehling. 

THERE'S NOTHING LIKE A GAME OF GOLF 

COME, golfing mate, ere 'tis too late, 
Come out upon the tee, 
Prepared to play this glorious day 

A game of golf with me. 
Well in advance now take your stance, 

The honor's yours ; begin. 
There's nothing like a game of golf, 
Now let the best man win. 

The swing, the drive — the ball's alive! 

On o'er the links we play. 
There's notliing like a game of golf 

To drive dull care away. 
The iron shot dead on the spot. 

The putt that's holed to stay ; 
There's nothing like a game of golf 

In all the world today. 

Angus S. Hibbard. 



Lyrics of the Links 123 



REWARD OF MERIT 

I HATED the man who conceived it, 
While claiming that golf was "immense," 
For she, as a golfer, believed it 

Must please every person of sense. 
Golf ! golf ! and more golf ! was her passion ; 

From morning to sunset we played. 
With her it was sport — and the fashion; 
With me it was winning the maid. 

I dressed by the canons, revealing 

My unperpendicular pegs 
To persons without any feeling, 

Who made rude remarks about legs. 
I foozled and putted, and carried 

Her clubs when the caddies ran off; 
Thinks I, "Aha, miss, when we're married 

You'll learn my opinion of golf!" 

I played with her straight through the season, 

Till cityward wended the throng. 
And then I developed my reason 

For dancing attendance so long. 
And then, "Oh, I thought you a golfer!" 

My suit she dismissed with that snub, 
And married a gallery scoffer 

Who never had wielded a club. 

Frank Roe Batchelder, 



124 Lyrics of the Links 



GOLF 

THEY do not know what golf may be 
Who call it childish play 
To drive a globule from a tee 

And follow it away. 
They do not understand who scoff 

And all its virtues miss; 
Who think that this is all of golf — 
For golf is more than this. 

For golf is earth^s ambassador 

That comes to haunts of men. 
To lure them from the banking floor, 

The counter and the pen. 
To lead them gently by the hand. 

From toil and stress and strife, 
And guide them through the summer land, 

Along the path of life. 

The pastime of philosophers ; 

For such a man must be 
When far away the golf ball whirrs 

And hides behind a tree. 
A man may see his business fall 

And never turn a hair; 
But men are strong who lose the ball 

And still refuse to swear. 



Lyrics of the Links 125 

It is a game of honor, too, 

That tries the souls of men; 
It's easy in the public view 

To be all honest men. 
But he deserves an angeFs wings 

Who paths of truth has trod, 
When left alone with just two things — 

His score card and his God. 
If golf shall teach you patiently 

Adversity to meet; 
If it shall teach philosophy 

To keep your temper sweet; 
If it shall teach you still to grin 

With mirth, no matter what — 
You are a victor if you win 

A loving cup or not. Anonymous. 

A PSALM OF GOLF 

DRIVES of short length all remind us 
That in bunkers we may land, 
And departing leave behind us 

Footprints in the shifting sand. 
Footprints that perhaps another, 

Struggling with his clubs in vain, 
Some forlorn and foozling brother, 
Seeing, may take heart again. 

H. H. P. 



126 Lyrics of the Links 



THE CLEVER CADDY 

I USED to think my caddy 
A little Philistine; 
That vegetable ivory 

Composed his childish bean; 
That he was most benighted 

And foolish in the nut, 
A blithering boob and other things, 
I used to think it — but 

My caddy's erudition, 

His sapience and wit, 
Are simply flabbergasting — 

I can't get over it ! 
That pungent perspicacity! 

That comprehension keen! 
Acumen and sagacity — 

(If you know what I mean). 

Why, say, he has a massive brain, 

A cerebrum immense, 
A convoluted coco, 

An onion full of sense. 
A thinker stuffed with wisdom, 

An attic crammed with tricks, 
A fine cephalic gathering 

Of ologies and ics. 



Lyrics of the Links 127 

I used to think my caddy 

A gem of purest bone, 
But then I was mistaken; 

My fault I freely own. 
I know now he's a genius 

Of rare and lambent flame, 
For I have overheard him say 

I play a clever game. 

J. P. McEvoy. 
THE SENTIMENTAL GOLFER 

THE driver — aye, I miss it much! 
One needs its strong assistance, 
As doth the cripple need his crutch. 

To win him any distance. 
The cleek — a wondrous aid it adds 

Wliere slopes are smoothly grassy ; 
But give to me the brassey, lads. 

Because it rhymes with lassie ! 
The lofter — true, 'tis useful quite, 

To rise from dip or hollow; 
The iron — swung with main and might, 

A goodly stroke will follow. 
The mashie — he who well employs 

Belauds it, light or massy ; 
But give to me the brassey, boys. 

Because it rhymes with lassie ! 

Clmton Scollard. 



128 Lyrics of the Links 



THE GAME 

I PLACE a brand new ball upon the tee, 
With mighty swing I hit the thing away, 
And as it sinks into the bracken sea, 

I murmur to the ball, "Good day." 

I watch another with a well-worn ball. 
And half my tutored skill, send it in flight, 

To eat the distance in its rise and fall, 
And murmur to myself, "Good night." 

Oh, what's the use? I play and pay and pay. 

Each time I play I almost want to cry; 
And so I think I'll put my clubs away, 

And murmur to the game, "Good-bye." 

But do I? Seek the answer in the rough; 

Let hazards speak and bunkers tell of strife. 
As long as golfing trees bear nuts enough 

I'll be an also-ran — you bet your life. 

John Campbell Hayward. 



Lyrics of the Links 129 



A GOLFER'S GARDEN OF VERSES 

Office in St?mmer 

IN winter, when the links are white, 
I'm at the office until night. 
In summer, when the course is green, 
I always catch the 12.15. 

I have to stay till then to see 
The business folks who bother me. 
There's always something to detain. 
And more than once I've missed my train. 

And does it not seem hard to you, 
When all the sky is clear and blue. 
That I must office half the day. 
With only eighteen holes to play? 

Whole Duty op Golfers 
A golfer, when he plays with you. 
Should speak when he is spoken to. 
And keep his score card free from fable; 
At least so far as he is able. 

Rain 

The rain is raining all around, 

It falls on turf and tee; 
But I don't care how wet I get — 

I made that hole in three. 



130 Lyrics of the Links 

Travel 

Winters I should like to go 
Where there is no cold and snow; 
Where, below another sky, 
Lureful links Elysian lie; 
Where, with nothing else to do, 
I should golf the whole day through, 
Pausing only now and then 
For a bite, then back again. 
Southward I would track the sun. 
Travel always broadens one. 

Prayers 

Every night my prayers I say. 

And ask a better score next day; 

And every day, for all my care, 

My card would make St. Andrew swear. 

Bert Leston Taylor. 



Lyrics of the Links 131 



A NOBLE LIFE WORK 

A golfer's wife should not feel life is wasted, 
Nor that her days at home are dull and long. 
Let her fulfill her very sacred mission, 

And serving Him should make life one sweet song. 

There are His golf shirts to be washed and ready, 
And SOX prepared against the Next Day's Match. 

And foursome's dinners cooked at weirdest seasons ; 
A Golfer's door she should keep on the latch. 

Then she can hush the noisy offspring quiet ; 

At twilight they must midnight's silence keep; 
On the momentous Night Before the Finals, 

The wakeful He at least should try to sleep. 

And in those long, long, early dawning hours 
Wlien she must rise to feed and Him god-speed, 

She will find lots and lots of time to wash out 

And press the golf pants that he next will need. 

Throughout the solemn watches of the long nights, 

When he is playing far away, 'tis nice 
To have so many quiet hours to read in; 

Quite silly to dread burglars fierce or mice. 



132 Lyrics of the Links 

Why then for mountains pine, or lake, or river? 

At seaside's luring salty charms just scoff! 
Where could a woman find a nobler, holier mission. 

Than keeping Him in perfect trim for golf? 

E. M. Gardner, 

THE LINGUISTIC LIMIT 

E had been a Latin scholar, 

And had mastered modem Greek. 
For a paltry wagered dollar, 

He learned Hebrew in a week. 
Sanscrit and antique Phoenician, 

Or the scripts of Yucatan, 
Were as simple as addition 

To this language learned man. 

Patois, race pronunciations. 

And the Chinese alphabet 
He knew well; to fifty nations 

He could speak their tongue ; and yet 
Finally his learning failed him 

And his thought and speech were off; 
For no language gifts availed him 

With the dialect of golf. 

Anonymous, 



Lyrics of the Links 133 



STILL HOPING 

WHEN I attempt a practice swing 
And 'round my head the driver bring, 
The club seems like a living thing, 

Responding gladly ; 
But when the ball before me lies, 
(A dimpled object 'neath my eyes), 
I swing — and much to my surprise, 
I foozle badly. 

In dreams I play the course in par! 
My drives are certain, straight and far! 
My brassies do not leave a scar, 

My putts are wonders I 
And yet when through the green I go, 
I dub and flub and pufF and blow; 
My play — it always happens so — 

Is full of blunders. 

From driving tee to putting green 
The way lies clear. 'Twere easy seen 
If no ill luck should intervene, 

The hole I'd capture; 
But, never keeping in the course, 
My ball seeks ditch and trap and gorse, 
Filling my soul with sad remorse, 

Instead of rapture. 



134 Lyrics of the Links 



Filled Aivith the golfer's sturdy hope, 
I tread the valley, mount the slope. 
And with all difficulties cope. 

In grim decision ; 
I'd like to make a bogey four. 
But, sad to tell, an eight or more 
Will be recorded on my score 

To haunt my vision. 

Still I shall not give up the game! 
Some day I'll wear a wreath of fame, 
And in the Golfer find my name. 

Set down a winner. 
I'll lay the tuneful lyre away. 
Give me my clubs ! Again I'll play. 
And make a seventy-nine today, 

Or I'm a sinner ! Henri/ Litchfield West. 

PERFECT FORM 

SHE did not know a driver from a cleek; 
She foozled and the near-by sod she tore; 
She couldn't make the course within a week. 

There was no need to cry a warning "fore!" 
Her stance, her swing, and e'en her waggles — all 

Were not according to the ethics; yet 
Although she very seldom hit the ball 

Her form was simply perfect — yes, you bet! 

Anonj/mous. 



Lyrics of the Links 135 



THE TERRIBLE LINKS 

I SPOKE about some well-known books, 
I asked her if she read. 
She charmed me with her woman's looks. 
But "no" was what she said. 

Quite lightly then I touched on art. 

But naught had she to say. 
E'en as I spoke I saw her heart 

And eyes were far away. 

I spoke of love in such a tone 

As might have made her blush. 
Yet to her cheek's full-rounded zone 

The color did not rush. 

She simply muttered, as I ground 

My feet into the floor: 
"It seems too good ! I've gone around 

At last in ninety-four." 

Tom Masson. 



136 Lyrics of the Links 

THE FIRST GAME 

IT is so queer you do not play. 
I'll teach you how," said she, 
"If you will go some leisure day 

To Wheaton links with me." 
And so it happened we were found 

One fateful day in June, 
Armed and equipped to play a round 
And pass an afternoon. 

"This pat of sand is called a 'tee' 

From which I drive the ball." 
She struck and watched the ball — not me — 

Which I liked not at all. 
So round the course we played that day — • 

I need not say she won — 
And I am also free to say, 

Her patience was all gone. 

"To teach you how to play," she said, 

*'Would take me all my life." 
"I could do better," I replied, 

"If you would be my wife." 
She dropped her eyes and said, "I've found 

You do not need a 'coach' 
To teach you some things ; in one round 

You've learned how to approach," 

Anonymous. 



Lyrics of the Links 137 

IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE LIES 

WHAT though you have your stance O. K., 
Your swing and follow through; 
What though you have the nerve and play 

Quite as top-notchers do ; 
Eye quite correct, in distance up, 

Your putting a surprise — 
Yet youVe not sure to win the cup ! 
It all depends upon the lies. 

What though your pro does seventy-eight, 

And you a ninety-two ; 
The latter, not a rapid gait, 

Seems very good to you. 
But lo ! some stranger to the links 

Turns up, a "lonesome" tries; 
His card reads seventy-six, he thinks! 

It all depends upon the lies. 

What though she daily breaks a stick, 

In ev'ry hazard falls; 
What though she dots the fair green thick 

With divots, and she mauls 
Her irons into stones and such, 

You can't deny she tries 
To keep her score from mounting much! 

It all depends upon the lies. 

Arthur Hinds, 



138 



Lyrics of the Links 



THE SUPREME TEST 

THE suitor warmly pressed his suit; 
(You know the suit I mean) ; 
The father listened patiently — 

His daughter was a queen. 
"How do you know you love my girl?" 

Then asked the cautious dad. 
The suitor said : "I've golfed with her, 

And love her still, by Gad !" 
"I've seen it, too," her father cried, 

Then meekly bowed his head. 
*'Her one best hole was seventeen — 
She's yours !" the old man said. 

Anonymous, 




Lyrics of the hinks 139 



THE QUEEN OF THE LINKS 

'hen gentle Alice swings the club, 
Her crimson lips apart, 
Incontinent across the green 

The nimble gutties dart. 
To see her drive and loft and putt, 
Would teach a dunce love's art. 
And at her very first approach 
I straightway lost my heart. 

"What shall we call the winner in 

This twosome match?" she said. 
*'I think that victory deserves a name," 

Exclaimed this winsome maid. 
"I'd like to call her Alice, dear," 

I boldly answered back; 
She pouted just a bit at first, 

And then she called me Jack. 

"There's nothing in the rules," she said, 

(It thrilled me through with bliss) 
"About a penalty or fine, 

If players chance to kiss ; 
I may accord an extra one 

On every putting green." 
And rapturously then I cried, 

"You are my golfing Queen." 



140 Lyrics of the Links 

"I hardly think," sweet Alice said, 

"That I could reign alonp — 
I feel quite certain I should need 

A partner on the throne; 
So if you'll teach me how to reign, 

And your experience bring, 
I'll call a consort to my aid. 

And you shall be my King." 

William Lincoln Balch. 
PHYLLIS OF THE LINKS 

PHYLLIS is a golfing maid ; 
Cupid is her caddie. 
At her feet my heart I laid, 

But oh ! that wicked laddie ! 
Up he picks my pulsing heart. 

All unknown to me. 
Wounds it with a brassey dart. 

And lays it on the tee. 
Phyllis drove a fearsome drive, 

Almost past our ken. 
But lo ! the ball, as if alive, 

Came bounding back again. 
Bounding back it came, although 

Much it pained to grieve her. 
Phyllis lost her stroke, for oh ! 

My heart, it couldn't leave her! 

Edrmmd Vance CooJce. 



Lyrics of the Links 141 



Y 



BEATING 'EM TO IT 

ES, pal, I know just how it was — you should have 

won a mile; 
You had him trimmed ten ways on form and twenty 

ways on style; 
You had him stewed into a trance — you had him strung 

until 
You went and blew a ten-inch putt where something 

tipped the pill ; 
A putt you wouldn't miss again the whole blank summer 

long — 
A pop-eyed pipe to anchor — am I right or am I wrong? 



I get you, pal, — don't say a word — he wasn't in your 

class; 
You had no less than twelve bad kicks that plunked you 

in the grass ; 
While you were straight upon the pin, he foozled every 

shot, 
But somehow skidded on the green, and gathered in 

the pot; 
No, not a word ; I know, old top — your case is nothing 

new — 
I know, because each time I lose they beat me that 
way, too. 

Grantland Rice. 



142 Lyrics' of the Links 

THE LIAR OF THE LINKS 

I HAVE been from Maine to Denver and from Denver 
to the coast, 
And I've met with many liars, great and small; 
I've listened to New England brag and Minnesota 
boast. 
And the wildest western whopper of them all. 
But I want to go on record that it is my firm belief 

That for quality that never fades nor shrinks, 
The uncrowned King of Liars, the General-in-Chief, 
Is the glib and gifted Liar of tlie Links. 

The old familiar lies of mighty deeds with rod and gun, 
The trick tliat caught the trout or killed the moose. 
Are simply brainless bubbles when this most accom- 
plished son 
Of Ananias once gets fairly loose. 
He will tell you how in driving from the sixth or seventh 
tee, 
Some thirty minutes after set of sun. 
His ball slipped through the bark upon a slippery elm 
tree, 
Then caromed from a branch and holed in one. 

He will tell you how in lofting once his ball went up so 

high. 
It took at least three minutes to come down ; 
And how he won by twenty holes and didn't have to 

try. 



Lyrics of the Links 143 

Against the celebrated slasher Brown. 
He will also tell of bunkers high as any mountain peak, 

Over which he's sent his ball with deadly aim ; 
And with manner bold and brassy he will lie about the 
cleek 

With which he won the championship game. 

He will tell about the blindfold game he played a year 
ago, 
When he made his famous round in fifty-three; 
He will tell how he's defeated all the best this land 
can show. 
And many famous chaps across the sea. 
In short, with all respect to other liars here and there, 

For versatile mendacity, methinks 
He stands alone, unparalleled and quite beyond com- 
pare. 
This monumental Liar of the Links. 

E. C. Walcott. 

ONE DOWN AND ONE UP 

THE golden gorse ablaze. 
Turns into purple haze. 
Where in the distance fades the sunset glow; 
The note of birds is gay, 
Piping their cheerful lay. 
The murmur of tlie sea is faint and low ; 



144 Lyrics of the Links 

And slender spires are seen 

Peeping above the green; 
White clouds o'erhead sail lazily and slow ; 

Yet there is one who sees 

No beauty in the trees ; 
One who is blind to country and to town ; 

For at the eighteenth hole, 

This thing doth vex his soul — 
His adversary holds him by "one down." 

The day is cold and drear, 

The autumn leaves are sere, 
A chill and searching wind blows o'er the lea ; 

No song of birds is heard, 

Or plowboy's cheering word ; 
From far off sounds the thunder of the sea ; 

The chill mist dropping down. 

Hides all the distant town. 
The cold rain drips from every bush and tree; 

And yet one heart is light. 

Heedless of coming night ; 
Of happiness alone one drinks the cup ; 

For at the eighteenth hole. 

This cheers the golfer's soul — 
He leads his adversary by "one up.*' 

George H. Sargent. 



Lyrics of the Links 145 



THREE UP ON ANANIAS 

A GROUP of golfers sat one day 
Around the nineteenth hole, 
Exchanging lies and alibis 

Athwart the flowing bowl. 
"Let's give a cup," said one of them, 

A sparkle in his eye, 
"For him among us who can tell 
The most outrageous lie." 

*'Agreed," they cried, and one by one, 

They played way under par, 
With yams of putts and brassey shots 

That travelled true and far; 
With stories of prodigious swipes — 

Of holes they made in one — 
Of niblick shots from yawning traps, 

As Vardon might have done. 

And when they noticed, sitting by, 

Apart from all the rest, 
A stranger, who had yet to join, 

The fabricating test; 
"Get in the game," they said to him, 

"Come on and shoot your bit." 
Whereat the stranger rose and spoke, 

As follows, or to wit: 



146 Lyrics of the Links 



^'Although I've played some holes in one 

And other holes in two ; 
Although I've often beaten par, 

I kindly beg of you 
To let me off — for while I might 

Show proof of well-earned fame, 
I never speak about my scores 

Or talk about my game." 

They handed him the cup at once, 

Their beaten banners furled; 
Inscribing first, below his name, 

"The champion of the world." 

Grantland Rice. 

THE REASON 

You are old, Father William," the young man said. 
"And your swing has become very fiat, 
And yet you incessantly lay the ball dead. 
Pray what is the reason for that?" 

"In my youth," Father William replied, "it is that 

I studied and practised and swore; 
But now I just step up and give it a swat — 

What reason for anything more?" 

ATwnymous. 



Lyrics of the Links l^? 



THE GOLF BONNET 

'ITH poet pencil subtle, 
In days ot "scoop" and "scuttle," 
Rob Herrick sang to Julia in quaintly fashioned phrase; 
And when Priscilla, modest, 
Wore headgear of the oddest. 
Her sober millinery even won its meed of praise. 

But ah ! not a scintilla 

Care I for prim Priscilla ! 
With Julia's antique fripperies I would not be acquaint ; 

If I should write a sonnet, 

I'd sing the golfing bonnet, 
Whose ruffled glory crowns her like the nimbus of a 
saint. 

When skies are pink at morning. 
Of cloudless weather warning, 
And Phoebus gets him up to march unwinking 'round 
the world; 
Though ardently he kisses, 
His winsome mark he misses, 
When o'er her brow her bonnet's jealous banner is 
unfurled. 

Yet oftentime it chances 
That, fearing not his glances, 
In intervals of resting under leafy branches dim, 



148 Lyrics of the Links 

With shadows intervening, 
She needs no bonnet's screening, 
But shows her face completely in the halo of its brim. 

I, too, have found its visor 
A very tantalizer; 
For when the game is over and the players leave the 
links. 
Although I walk beside her, 
It yet contrives to hide her, 
While Phoebus, the defeated, smiles as down the west 
he sinks. 

What matters his deriding? 

For, patiently abiding. 
Till half she turns unto me as we saunter slowly on, 

As swift I lean toward her, 

Lo ! in its crimply border, 
Her cheek has caught the color of its frills of rosy 
dawn. 

Oh, often may she don it, 
Her bonny golfing bonnet ! 
And as she deftly ties her dainty head its shade within, 
Though down she looks demurely, 
Full well she knows, securely 
She holds my heart a captive in the bow beneath her 
chin. 

Jennie Betts Hartswick. 



Lyrics of the Links 149 



THE GOLFER 

HE bought two gaudy, scarlet coats, 
Brass buttons, with green collars; 
His knickerbockers made the bUl 
Close to $100. 

The golf club that he joined was large, 

Established well and thrifty ; 
And for his fee, in good hard cash. 

He next put up a 50. 

His brassey, cleeks and putter fine, 

The club with which to drive. 
The bag, the balls, and other sticks. 

Cost nearly 25. 

With shoes, broad-soled, with hob-nails filled. 

He next his feet bedecks ; 
For them he gave up in exchange 

A crisp, new green-backed X. 

For sundries, like a code of rules, 

White paint, a rubber tee. 
And books to tell him how to play. 

He dropped at least a V, 



150 Lyrics of the Links 

At last he started out one day, 

And as he hit the fence — 
"Gee!" some one heard the caddie say, 

"He plays like 30 cents." 

Anonyinous. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT GOLFER 

{Conceding two strokes to Colonel Coleridge) 



I 



T was an Ancient Golfer, 

And he stoppeth one of three; 
"By thy baffing spoon, thou crazy loon, 
Now wherefore stoppeth me?*' 



He held me with his glittering eye, 
I had to get that alibi. 

"I drove them straight from every tee, 

I soaked them on the crest; 
I played my mashie like a Braid, 

Or Vardon at his best. 

*But eke when I had reached the green, 
I was a pie-eyed mutt; 



Lyrics of the Links 151 

I could have had a 68 
If I could only putt. 

*'I putted slow — I putted fast — ' 

I made them roll and hop ; 
I putted standing up and crouched, 

But still they would not drop. 

"About — about, in reel and rout, 

My score went on the blink; 
Aye, putters, putters everywhere, 

But not a putt would sink. 

"I hit the cup eleven times. 

And rimmed it seven more; 
I bit my arm, I shrieked aloud, 

I wept and then I swore; 
I should have got a 68, 

But got a 94." 

I left that crazy loon and ran, 

As any one would do. 
And hustled off to tell a guy 

About the putts I blew; 
How I deserved a QQ^ 

And got a 92. 

Grantland Rice. 



152 Lyrics of the Links 



THE ULTIMATE WISH 

GOLFER lost one thousand bucks, 
Through sly, strategic guile, 
But sweetly and submissively 

He lost it with a smile. 
A fire razed his home and goods, 

And left him poor as sin, 
But though he lost his habitat. 
He didn't lose his grin. 

A deft, determined auto thief 

Meandered with his car; 
The golfer merely laughed "Tee I heel" 

And also chortled "Ha !" 
His wife decamped one autumn eve 

And took the kids along. 
But though he lost his familee. 

He didn't lose his song. 

In short, no ugly stroke of fate 

Could confiscate his nan — 
Could cop his happy Capricorn — 

This philosophic man. 
And imperturbable he lived, 

A cool and placid bloke. 
Until upon one fatal day 

He found he'd lost his stroke. 



Lyrics of the Links 



1.53 



Then blooie went philosophy 

And cool, platonic words ; 
He shouted hot, sulphuric things. 

That shocked the little birds ; 
And curses scoriae suffused 

The desiccated scene ; 
In other words, the poor gazook 

Grew balmy in the bean. 



Moral : 

A golfing guy may lose his roll, 

And still be gay and j oke, 
But Lord have mercy on his soul 

If he should lose his stroke. 

J. P. McEvoy. 




154 Lyrics of the Links 



MY CADDIE 

I SOMETIMES wonder what he thinks 
As he stands there and looks at me. 
I've oft detected sundry winks 

To other kids around the tee. 
I don't know that I blame him much, 

I think I'd liave to grin myself, 
Were I a caddie chasing such 
Erratic drives for sordid pelf. 

For every kid who works for me 

When I a-golfing go, 
Learns every bunker, ditcli and tree. 

And rough spot that there is to know. 
And don't forget the gopher holes ; 

I drive into them, never fear; 
While pond rafts he so often poles. 

He quite becomes a gondolier. 

He cheers me up with tales of men 

Who played as badly as I do. 
But who, it would appear, since then 

Have done nine holes in forty-two. 
He tells me I will do the same 

When I've served my novitiate 
At this most tantalizing game. 

Let's hope he's right, at any rate. 



Lyrics of the Links 



155 



And I have only this to say 

About this caddy boy of mine: 
He well and truly earns his pay; 

His services are superfine. 
No eagle has a keener eye 

Than he, when golf balls are in flight, 
And though he mocks me on the sly, 

I must say, "Caddie, you're all right." 



Maurice D. Lynch. 




156 Lyrics of the Links 



MY GOLFING GIRL 

TOAST, if you will, a bachelor maid, 
Or a lass who braves the sea; 
Drink to the health of summer girls, 

But the only girl for me 
Is one who wears a jaunty tam, 

And tie of brilliant hue; 
Who drives a ball with grace and force 
And skill displayed by few. 

Down to the links we often stroll, 

When the sun his light unfurls; 
Softly the breezes kiss her lips 

As they toss her golden curls; 
And Dolly all unconscious seems 

Wlien bending o'er the tee. 
That wliile she plays with clubs and balls. 

She plays the deuce with me. 

Yes, I'm in love — and deeply, too, — 

But the fact is plain to see, 
That Dolly loves the game of golf 

Far better than she does me. 
And, as I dream of her tonight, 

Wliile the creeping shadows rise, 
I long to see the love-light shine 

In her dark and brilliant eyes. 



Lyrics of the Links 157 

For in the twilight's deep'ning shade, 

As we left the links behind, 
I realized my heart was gone, 

And with it my peace of mind. 
Fair Dolly, as she fixed her clubs 

And gathered the balls today. 
With them in the depths of her caddy bag 

Had stowed my heart away. 

Max Thornton. 



MATCH PLAY 

STREPHON met Phyllis on the links 
Upon a breezy morning. 
Tee number one was introduced 
Without a single warning 

About the dangers of the game. 
Which certainly was stupid. 

The introducer, by the way, 
Was Mr. Daniel Q. Pidd. 

Tee number two ; to watch the ball 
Was Strephon most attentive. 

But somehow, found his partner'^s face 
A most complete preventive. 



158 Lyrics of the Links 

In consequence to number three 
Sir Strephon's strokes were plenty; 

And to believe what some folks say, 
Phyllis was "down" in twenty. 

At four, the "Punch-bowl," Strephon grevr 

Inebriate completely; 
And Phyllis missed a six inch putt, 

But still kept smiling sweetly. 

At five, fair Phyllis out of bounds 

Soon sent the gutta flying. 
Yet didn't seem to find the slice 

Particularly trying. 

The fond swain strove at number six 

To drive off with his putter, 
Which, strangely, never caused Miss Phyll 

Surprised remarks to utter. 

The rest? Well, I can simply state 

The rumor now is spreading; 
Strephon and Phyllis handed in 

"No cards" — excepting "wedding." 

William H. Sayward, Jr. 



Lyrics of the Links 159 



THE CONUNDRUM OF THE LINKS 



w 



HEN the flush of a new-bom sun first fell on 
Eden's classic course, 
Our father Adam stood on the tee and swung at the 

ball with force; 
And the first rude drive that the world had seen 

brought joy to him in a storm, 
Till the Devil whispered behind the trees : "A corker — 
but was it form?" 

Wherefore he called to his wife and tried to fashion 

his swing anew. 
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most 

dread review ; 
And he left his style to the use of his sons and thought 

it a mighty gain. 
Till the Devil whispered, "But is it form?" in the ear 

of the branded Cain. 

They swung and slashed on a hundred links, they 

played in a crowded swarm. 
Till the Devil grunted behind the tee: "It is striking, 

but is it form?" 
The cleek was dropped and the brassey stopped and 

the idle mashie hung. 
While each one talked of the "proper form" and each 

in alien tongue. 



160 Lyrics of the Links 

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree — as old as the 

Serpent's wile — 
For each one thinks ere his lip-thatch grows, he is 

master of form and style ; 
And each one hears as the twilight nears in the sweep 

of the final storm, 
The Devil call from the darkened pit: "You did it, 

but was it form?" 

Grantland Rice. 



RESIGNATION 

THOUGH one may never hope to gain 
A permanent proficiency, 
The merest duffer may attain 
A working inefficiency. 

Anonyitious. 

NOVEMBER 

OUTSIDE the world is howling by, 
Dull winter now is here to stay ; 
With heavy heart I heave a sigh, 
And sadly stow my clubs away. 

Herbert F. Clark. 



Lyrics of the Links 161 



LIMERICKS 

A GOLFER who now and then swore some, 
Took a hand in a very mixed foursome. 
Not a word did he say 
In the course of the day, 
But his subsequent language was awesome. 



A caddie remarked to his master: 
"Bad lies are a source of disaster. 

Wlien the balPs in a cup, 

I will just tee it up. 
And so we shall get on much faster." 

A hole in one stroke was the score 
Of a tyro ; all shouted, "Encore !" 

"I'll not try it again," 

Said this wisest of men, 
"For I might take a great many more.*' 

A swiper drove off from the tee, 
And remarked with a terrible D, 

"I have carried the green, 

But has any one seen 
The head of my C-L-U-B?" 



162 Lyrics of the Links 

There was a young lady of yore, 
Who won handicap prizes galore, 

They put her at scratch, 

But she won every match. 
For she never could count about four, 
A smash — and a very long divot; 
My eyes on his next act did rivet; 

He leaped 'long the sod. 

Picked up the big clod 
And replaced it! Would you believe it? 
There was a young lady of Bhong, 
Whose driving was fearfully long; 

But — most fatal of buts — 

She was weak with her putts, 
Which is just where she should have been strong. 

Ajionymous^ 

A giddy young golfer named Cater, 
Was reputed to be a first-rater, 

For each time he plays 

He beats "par," so he says. 
But of course he refers to his pater. 
Have you played with a duffer named Roe, 
Who plays so infernally slow 

That he started, they say, 

In springtime to play, 
And returned with the first fall of snow. 



Lyrics of the Links 163 

There's a crusty old golfer named Kew, 
Who would never let any one through. 

When he died Peter cried, 

"You can't come inside, 
There's a place down below waiting you." 
A dapper young golfer named Willie, 
While addressing the little white pill, he 

Should send it a mile 

From his talk and his style. 
But the current conjecture is, will he? 
A golfer whom we will name Leary, 
When not playing golf is quite cheery ; 

But let him get stuck 

By a bit of hard luck 
And I think he'd e'en swear at his dearie. 

W. Hastings Wehlmg. 




INDEX OF AUTHORS 






m 'i \ 'i ^ 'i 

f/\\'\\\ 



j I ^< 

11 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 

AUTHORS UNKNOWN page 

A Golfer's Appeal to His Clubs 116 

A Psalm of the Links 12 

Autumn 50 

Bunkered 27 

Bunker Wisdom 3 

Faith, Hope and Charity 83 

Foozlesome's Spring Song 90 

Golf 124 

Golf Balderdash 120 

Golfaijat 58 

Golf versus Nature 71 

Helping the Game 60 

In the Spring 114 

Limericks 161 

Little Things 53 

New Year Resolutions 72 

Nine Little Golf Holes 13 

On the Golf Club Porch 14 

Perfect Form 134 

Perfectly Satisfied 103 

Resignation 160 

Stymie 69 

The Dub's Lament 7 

The DufFer 118 

The First Game 136 

The Golfer 149 

The Golf Fiend 6 

167 



168 Index of Authors 



PAGE 

The Linguistic Limit 132 

The Man of Many Clubs 77 

The One Best Tip 71 

The Old Hundred 38 

The Reason 146 

The Sitting Hen 51 

The Supreme Test 138 

Working Overtime 41 

A. E. A. 

If 17 

BENJ. AYMAR 

Fore : 106 

Mickey Nolan 10 

WILLIAM LINCOLN BALCH 

Tlie Queen of the Links 139 

JOHN KENDRICK BANGS 

The Easy Go Club 81 

FRANK ROE BATCHELDER 

Reward of Merit 123 

CHARLOTTE BECKER 

Wlien Kitty Golfs 23 

S. K. BENNETT 

To a Perfect Putt 68 

To the Man who Lost 60 

W. C. BITTING 

Golf Links 112 

FRANK J. BONNELLE 

Fascination 41 

Silence at the Tee 84 

The Village Golfer 49 



Index of Authors 169 



PAGE 

W. T. BURGESS 

The Bonniest Game o' All 46 

D. W. C. 

A Song of the Game 88 

JOSEPH A. CAMPBELL 

When I Putt 76 

JOSEPH CHAPMAN 

The Three Fates 69 

JESSE G. CLARE 

A Brighter World 61 

HERBERT F. CLARK 

November 160 

BEATRICE LOUISE COLBURN 

Caught at Last 42 

EUGENE D. COLLINS 

The Clan Angora 99 

EDMUND VANCE COOKE 

Phyllis of the Links 140 

WALTER N. P. DARROW 

A Wonderful Score 86 

ROSE CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY 

A Golf Song 1 

The Lorelei of the Links 89 

S. G. EATON 

The Dubs 34 

Victory 28 

When 'Omer Smote 'Is Bloomin' Ball 48 

CHARLES EVANS, JR. 

A Chronic Semi-Finalist 97 

SYLVIA FLORANCE 

An Ovier'-Drive 55 



170 Index of Authors 



PAGE 

CLAUDE H. GAMBLE 

The Score 16 

E. M. GARDNER 

A Noble Life Work 131 

THEODOSIA PICKERING GARRISON 

I Saw Phyllis 22 

E. M. GRIFFITH 

To the Inexpressible Globe 115 

EDGAR A. GUEST 

A Golfer's Wish Y5 

The Wood 95 

Yesterday 78 

Your Caddie and You 92 

AMELIA ADAMS HARRINGTON 

All Sufficient 59 

It's a Great Life 18 

JENNIE BETTS HARTSWICK 

The Golf Bonnet 147 

JOHN CAMPBELL HAYWARD 

The Game 128 

ANGUS S. HIBBARD 

Tliere's Nothing Like a Game of Golf 122 

ARTHUR HINDS 

It All Depends upon the Lies 137 

G. R. HOLLAND 

A Bogey Dream 82 

MINNA IRVING 

The Golf Girl 45 

PHILANDER JOHNSON 

On the Links 4 



Index of Authors 171 



FRANCIS BOWLER KEENE 

A Song of Four Seasons 54 

A Triolet of Golf 43 

Song of the Champion Ball 44 

R. P. KEIGWIN 

Sprigs of Solace 65 

HORACE SEYMOUR KELLAR 

The Phantom Links 91 

S. E. KISER 

If Gray Had Been a Golfer 102 

The Pillow Score. . . .i 56 

ANDREW LANG 

Ode to Golf 66 

Until I Die 68 

ANNA AMELIA LANG 

The Calling of the Links 93 

RING W. LARDNER 

The Golfer's Prayer 8 

Nocturnal Golf 73 

FORBES LINDSAY 

The Ball and the Club 36 

JOHN T. LLEWELLYN 

The End of a Perfect Game 33 

MAURICE D. LYNCH 

My Caddie 154 

H. H. M. 

A Toast 19 

W. MALING-WYNCH, JR. 

Like as We Lie 24 

TOM MASSON 

The Terrible Links 135 



172 Index of Authors 



PAGE 

MARTHA MICHEL MARTIN 

The Ravin' of a Golf Maniac 62 

c. P. McDonald 

Stow the Sticks 109 

J. P. McEVOY 

The Clever Caddy 126 

The Stranger 37 

The Ultimate Wish 152 

H. H. P. 

A Psalm of Golf 125 

M. W. POOL 

December 108 

E. C. POTTER 

To a Golf Ball 30 

GRANTLAND RICE 

Beating 'Em to It 141 

Rare Species 32 

The Conundrum of the Links 159 

The Golfer's Epitaph 26 

The Rime of the Ancient Golfer 150 

Three Up on Ananias 145 

EDWIN L. SARIN 

Busy 20 

From Her Caddie 22 

The Lost Ball 104 

When the Caddie Is Over the Hill 5 

GEORGE H. SARGENT 

One Down and One Up 143 

WILLIAM H. SAYWARD, JR. 

Match Play 157 



Index of Authors 173 



CLINTON SCOLLARD 

A Ballade of the Inveterate Golfer 52 

Golfer's Ballade for Autumn 21 

The Sentimental Golfer 127 

The Ungolfing Lover. 40 

LAURA SIMMONS 

The Lost Ball 35 

CARLYLE SMITH 

A Tonic for the Game 25 

J. H. SMITH 

Early Golf 70 

GEORGE B. STAFF 

An Amateur's Rosary 59 

His Gallery 118 

E. W. STANSBURY 

Golfer's Hymn 67 

H. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN 

A Favorite of Fortune 19 

BERT LESTON TAYLOR 

A Golfer's Garden of Verses 129 

Why? 9 

MAX THORNTON 

My Golfing Girl 156 

A. W. TILLINGHAST 

Jinx's Office 57 

WALTER UTTING 

Her Logic 29 

E. C. WALCOTT 

The Liar of the Links 142 



174 



Index of Authors 



PAGE 

W. HASTINGS WEBLING 

After the Foursome 79 

Limericks 162 

Resuscitation 121 

So Different 47 

HENRY LITCHFIELD WEST 

My First Golf Cup 110 

Still Hoping 133 

That Old Golf Club of Mine 11 

The Nineteenth Hole 96 




INDEX TO TITLES 

PAGE 

After the Foursome , 79 

A Ballade of the Inveterate Golfer 52 

A Bogey Dream 82 

A Brighter World 61 

A Chronic Semi-Finalist 97 

A Favorite of Fortune 19 

A Golfer's Appeal to His Clubs 116 

A Golfer's Garden of Verses 129 

A Golf Song 1 

A Golfer's Wish 75 

All Sufficient 59 

An Amateur's Rosary 59 

A Noble Life Work 131 

An Over-Drive 55 

A Psalm of Golf 125 

A Psalm of the Links 12 

A Song of Four Seasons . 54 

A Song of the Game 88 

A Toast 19 

A Tonic for the Game 25 

A Triolet of Golf 43 

Autumn 50 

A Wonderful Score 86 

Beating 'Em to It 141 

Bunkered 27 

Bunker Wisdom 3 

175 



176 Index to Titles 



PAGE 

Busy 20 

Caught at Last. . . 42 

December 108 

Early Golf 70 

Faith, Hope and Charity 83 

Fascination. 41 

Fore 106 

Foozlesome*s Spring Song 90 

From Her Caddie , 22 

Golf 124. 

Golf Balderdash 120 

Golfer's Ballade for Autumn 21 

Golfaiyat . 58 

Golfer's Hymn 67 

Golf Links 112 

Golf versus Nature 71 

Helping the Game 60 

Her Logic 29 

His Gallery 118 

If 17 

If Gray had been a Golfer 102 

In the Spring 114 

I saw Phyllis 22 

It All Depends upon the Lies 137 

It's a Great Life 18 



Index to Titles 177 



PAGE 

Jinx's Office 57 

Like as We Lie 24 

Limericks 161 

Little Things 52 

Match Play 157 

Mickey Nolan 10 

My Caddie 154 

My First Golf Cup 110 

My Golfing Girl 156 

New Year Resolutions 72 

Nine Little Golf Holes 13 

Nocturnal Golf , ,. . 73 

November 160 

Ode to Golf QQ 

One Down and One Up 143 

On the Golf Club Porch 14 

On the Links 4 

Perfect Form . 134 

Perfectly Satisfied 103 

Phyllis of the Links , 140 

Rare Species 32 

Resignation 160 

Resuscitation 121 

Reward of Merit 123 

Silence at the Tee 84 

So Difl^^erent 47 



178 Index to Titles 



FAO£ 

Song of the Champion Ball . 44< 

Sprigs of Solace 65 

Still Hoping • 133 

Stow the Sticks 109 

Stymie 69 

That Old Golf Club of Mine 11 

The Ball and the Club 30 

The Bonniest Game o' All 46 

The Calling of the Links 93 

The Clan Angora 99 

The Clever Caddy 126 

The Conundrum of the Links 159 

The Dubs 34 

The Dubs* Lament 7 

The Duffer 118 

The Easy Go Club 81 

The End of a Perfect Game 33 

The First Game 136 

The Game 128 

The Golf Bonnet 147 

The Golfer 149 

The Golf Fiend 6 

The Golf Girl 45 

The Golfer's Epitaph 26 

The Golfer's Prayer 8 

The Liar of the Links 142 

The Linguistic Limit - . 132 

The Lorelei of the Links . ,,._. . 89 

The Lost Ball . 35 

The Lost Ball 104 



Index to Titles 179 



The Many of Many Clubs 77 

The Nineteenth Hole 96 

The Old Hundred 38 

The One Best Tip 71 

The Phantom Links 91 

The Pillow Score 56 

The Queen of the Links 139 

The Ravin' of a Golf Maniac 62 

The Reason 146 

The Rime of the Ancient Golfer 150 

The Score. . .- 15 

The Sentimental Golfer 127 

The Sitting Hen 51 

The Stranger. 37 

The Supreme Test 138 

The Terrible Links 135 

The Three Fates 69 

The Ultimate Wish 152 

The Ungolfing Lover 40 

The Village Golfer 49 

The Wood 95 

There's Nothing Like a Game of Golf 122 

Three Up on Ananias 145 

To a Golf Ball 30 

To a Perfect Putt 68 

To the Inexpressible Globe 115 

To the Man Who Lost 60 

Until I Die 68 

Victory 28 



180 



Indeoo to Titles 



PAGE 

When I Putt 76 

Wlien Kitty Golfs , 23 

When 'Omer Smote 'Is Bloomm' Ball 48 

Wlien the Caddie Is over the Hill 5 

Why? 9 

Working Overtime. 41 

Yesterday 78 

Your Caddie and You 92 




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